


Purge of the Innocent

by hellosweetie17



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 17yearold!Ciel, Child Death, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Grell Sutcliff, Investigations, M/M, Murder, On Hiatus, Original Character(s), Physical Abuse, Smut, Undercover Missions, Verbal Abuse, female!Sascha, human!Claude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8857999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellosweetie17/pseuds/hellosweetie17
Summary: Bodies of deceased children have been found throughout the streets of Europe and the reapers of London and Germany are clueless as to who or what could be killing them. With only a single lead, William T. Spears, Ronald Knox, Grelle Sutcliff, Alan Humphries, and Othello are deployed on an undercover investigation to the location where the most recent victims were found: the Manor of Claude Faustus and his son, Alois Trancy. Assisted by the Undertaker, Ciel Phantomhive and his demon butler, Sebastian Michaelis, the reapers find their way into the manor and assume various roles to ensure their stay. Through strife and struggle, it is their goal to bring an end to the culprit and retrieve the stolen souls of the innocent children wrongfully reaped and murdered before their time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ciel is 17 years old and Claude is human.

**Present day**

A loud crack filled the air, the tail of a leather whip snapping at its end. Overjoyed by the sound, the handler couldn't help but laugh as he lashed the whip once more, watching it hit the ground with great ferocity. The vibrations created by the quick motion crept into his hand and burrowed into his veins, rushing up his arm and to his heart; adrenaline at the helm. A beautifully addictive sensation, he was enticed by the comfortable grip and how it seemed to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, as if it was designed for him and no one else. Not to mention, he was the only one able to produce such high notes from those he beat into submission, writing a musical piece sound to his young ears.

Little fourteen year old Alois longed to partake in a long-running tradition at the Faustus Manor: welcoming a new member to the refined home. He was the best, he thought, in making a lasting impression in those whom were brave enough to agree to the harsh employment terms. However, his chance to greet another unfortunate soul was taken by someone else, someone in need of a lesson. It was his stepbrother's turn to experience the delight of wielding the leather whip, recently constructed with the blessing of a few cows or pigs—he couldn't remember. Whether the idiot liked it or not, his brother had to learn the way of life at Faustus Manor if he wished to be treated well, otherwise the pussy may suffer the consequences unknown to man. The mere thought caused Alois to smile, despite his blood brimming with envy.

Before he could pull the whip over his shoulder a third time, footsteps echoed in the distance, cascading in the direction of the room. His full head of platinum blond hair swished toward the door, his blue eyes sparkling with merriment and excitement. A man in tattered, dirty clothes was dragged across the ground, softly grunting as rubble scratched and dug into his swollen flesh. Strands of dark hair hung in front of his bruised face, drenched in sweat and blood, threatening the security of his glasses partially dangling at his ears. Awestruck, Alois watched the pathetic waste struggle in vain as he was pulled along.

Trancy giggled and silently cheered as the vermin was tossed to the ground at his feet. He rolled the handle of the whip in between his sweaty palms, eager to strike the lowlife at least once. That was all he needed: one chance to scrawl blood across the walls and break the man's skin, to write a crescendo of screams in his growing masterpiece, but no… There would be plenty of time to bask in the afterglow, he told himself, until then…

 _Why does Ronald have to get this one?_ It was obvious the nancy boy didn't like to welcome newcomers; mother saved him each and every time. Except today, father forbade the woman from interfering or rescuing the princess. Little Alois was still jealous, though. Perhaps father would allow him to have a go once Ronald was finished? One could only hope!

* * *

To say Ronald Knox was nervous would be an understatement. On the third floor of the Manor, the young man paced to and fro across the bare boards of his bedroom, each one creaking underneath his feet. The honey blonde hair at the top of his head was damp with sweat, the longer dark strands matted to the nape of his neck. A steady stream of the salty liquid trickled down the center of his back, forming a rather ugly stain in his white dress shirt. To make matters worse, he felt like he was choking with the black tie neatly fastened around his neck, even after he chose to loosen it.

The repetition of his footsteps threatened to leave scuff marks on the polished cherry wood, something he would likely be reprimanded for, but he couldn't stop. How could he? He was frantic and afraid of the doom that awaited him outside, where his stepfather and stepbrother damned him to the same cruelty under the Faustus name. It was evident Ronald was unlike the others, if not on the opposite end of the spectrum. Gentle and meek in nature, he withdrew from the ceremonies in a flurry of tears, rescued by his mother before he could take hold of the whip carved by the family name. It was an act that earned stoic scrutiny from Claude and even worse ridicule from his Alois, but he refused. He refused for so long, until he had no other choice than to do it. Yet the main question still waited an answer: could he follow through with such an insane order?

"I can't do this," he heaved, the words fast and sputtered from thick saliva. His heart raced, pounded at the door of his ribcage for freedom, or a kinder fate such as death. To die of his own stern will would be sweeter than at the hands of his stepfather, a consequence he was sure he would face if he didn't do what they demanded of him.

Slowly, Ronald drew in a breath and held it for ten seconds. He repeated the exercise in hopes of calming down, but it made his stomach churn. Rather than exhaling, he quickly ran into his private bathroom and fell to the floor, barely making it to the toilet to heave and vomit into the bowl. The contents of his stomach continued to empty into the porcelain base, acid and bile burning his throat. The minutes drew on and the more intense his stomach turned, but after what felt like years, Ronald gagged one last time and lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his clammy gloved hand. He sat there, trying to regain self-control, but it was useless. The moment he stepped outdoors, he would lose all control he had over the predicament at hand. He would become a harsher man, one of the Faustus name.

"I'm not one of them," he quietly assured himself, folding his arms around both legs as they pulled into his chest. Exhausted, he tilted his forehead on his knee, but before he could catch his breath, a knock was placed on the door.

Alana Humphries-Faustus slowly walked into the bathroom, her white heels clicking on the marble tiles, her pink summer dress flowing elegantly behind her. She gently kneeled in front of her son, her modest dress pooling around her. The small woman with curly blond locks leaned closed and tucked a strand of wet hair behind his ear; her eyes sad and sympathetic.

"Honey, I tried," Alana apologized, fingers running through her distressed son's hair. Ron looked at her through tearful eyes, his bottom lip trembling as he chewed on it.

"Mother," he sniffed, his cheeks warm. "I can't."

"You can," Alana sorely insisted, grasping his hands in her chilly ones to gently squeeze. "You must. It'll be alright, my love."

"No, it won't! I'm being forced to whip somebody. How am I supposed to do that?" Ronald's eyes widened, his tone gaining volumes of fear as anxiety seized hold of him again.

Alana didn't respond, but slowly stood, pulling her son from the floor along with her. She reached to the top of his head, grooming his disheveled two-toned hair. Sadly, she placed a comforting hand on his blotched cheek, wiping the tears away with the pad of her thumb.

"We have to go, Ronald. Your stepfather and brother are waiting," she muttered through a forced smile. Taking a hold of her son's hand, she walked out of the bathroom door and through the Manor, leading him outside into the daylight.

* * *

It had been less than ten minutes since father sent mother to fetch his brother from his bedroom, but in those long, excruciating minutes, Alois' patience began to wear thin. How long did they have to wait for the pansy to arrive? There was no doubt in his mind: he would back down from the task as he had done so many times before, which made the wait all the more unbearable. If only father would grant the responsibility to him full-time, then no one would have to worry about Ronald making a fool of himself time and time again. In fact, there could come a day where he would be the one to deliver Ron's punishment—an idea he quietly reveled in. Still, a lovely daydream could saturate his nerves for so long. Snapping, he shrugged off his purple frock coat and childishly threw it to the ground with determined force; dust rose from the impact, soiling his emerald green vest.

"Alois! Calm yourself," ordered his father, Claude Faustus. He stood tall and shoulders broad, his demeanor apathetic and icy.

"Why do we have to wait for Ronald to get here? He's taking forever!"

Unmoved by his son's tantrum, Claude remained motionless, not entertaining the young boy with even so much as a look. "Your mother has gone to retrieve him."

"But—"

"They're walking out of the manor now," the man interjected before his son could continue. The gold eyes beneath his black hair narrowed as he watched his wife gracefully drag his eldest son toward them, their steps agonizingly slow. Yet somehow, Ronald managed to make his way to cower before his authoritative father. Reluctant, Knox gazed into his father's cold eyes and swallowed the thick knot at the back of his throat.

"Give your brother the whip," he instructed, his tone flat. With a sneer, Alois gave the precious item to his stepbrother, which Ronald hesitantly grasped. "Turn around," the man added.

"This is William T. Spears!" Alois cheerfully introduced. "We're here to welcome our newest employee. Say hello everyone!"

Servants gathered around the poor man muttered a chorus of synchronized, solemn hello's.

"Say hi, Ronald!" Trancy urged through gritted teeth, shoving at his older brother.

"H-hello…" the young man stammered.

Spears peered over his shoulder at the young man whom appeared to be no older than twenty-four. The panicked eyes behind the bulky, black frames almost made William pity him, then again, he was the one about to be beaten and scarred for no reason other than being on the Faustus payroll.

Ronald's tear-filled gaze connected with the hostile eyes that were the similar in color, but glared with unadulterated hatred as if he ached to condemn the blond to the deepest, most remote pits of hell. After the 'welcoming festivities', Ron was certain he would end up there anyway.

"You know what to do," Claude firmly stated. The blond made no effort to move forward but instead, looked frightfully to Alana who stood mum. Faustus grabbed the collar of his eldest's son shirt and yanked him close. "Don't look at your mother!" he growled. "Either you could do it, or your brother and I will. However, I cannot guarantee that he will live if we were welcome him. With you, there is a chance of survival. Do you understand me?" he whispered into Ron's ears, satisfied by the nod of the boy's head. "Good." And with that, he forcefully pushed his son toward their newest employee, sighing as Knox clumsily tripped over his feet.

Slowly, he stood before William whom kneeled in front of him, the two staring at each other in a dance of abhorrence and terror. Ron wished he could tell the man something other than "I'm sorry" and beg for forgiveness, but the apology would be meaningless—if not insulting. With a frenzied heartbeat and a sharp intake of breath, he raised his unsteady arm behind him and snapped it forward, the whip making contact on the first strike.

On hands and knees, William hissed through clenched teeth at the first lash—his skin slicing open, the fresh wounds separating wider with each strike. He tried to bite through the pain, only grunting with every repeated lash; his glasses tumbled to the ground, the blows lurching his body forward.

Knox winced as he plundered the man's frail body. All sound, except the whip and the birds overhead, faded into the background. He watched blood flow down the new servant's back with visions of enthusiastic crows swooping to ravage the torn flesh from the open, gushing wounds under the hot sun flooded his mind. Agonizing screams joined the birds' and whip-cracking's duet.

A warm liquid trickled down Ronald's pant leg, pooling in his shoe. His head began to swim as the nauseating sounds ratcheted in his skull. When he felt like he couldn't strike another blow, a firm hand gripped around his wrist, causing him to look fearfully at his father.

"That's enough for now," the Head of House declared, removing his hold on his son's wrist.

Ron's arm went limp, the whip sliding out of his grasp and dropping to the ground covered in splashes of blood. The blond looked down at his victim whom laid on his side, his body racking with painful sobs.

"I should've had a-go," Alois grumbled, figuring the man could have handled a bit more.

"Give Spears his glasses and take him to the infirmary. Ronald will treat him there," instructed Claude, concluding the ceremony. Without a glance at Knox, he walked to the manor with Alois sauntering behind.

Quickly, Alana walked over to Ron and pulled him into a tight embrace. Without hesitation, he slumped into her arms and put his head on her shoulder, crying into the crook of her neck. To try and comfort him, she rocked him back and forth, rubbing small circles against his lower back to soothe his nerves. "It'll be alright, honey," she whispered. "I promise."

* * *

Despite blurred vision, William saw a pair of black boots step into his line of vision, shielding the sunlight from his eyes. Flecks of dust were kicked into his face, forcing a cough from the back of his throat; he hissed as the mineral found its way into his mouth. The person above him squeaked, letting out a tiny wail.

A young boy with large, turquoise eyes dropped to the ground, frightfully looking at him. "Are you alright, Mr. William!"

Will opened his mouth to assure the strawberry-blond haired boy that he would be fine, but only managed to dry heave in response. Instinctively, Finnian reached out to place a hand on his shoulder in what should have been a gesture of comfort. However, William belted out a loud, gut-wrenching groan when the boy gripped him with a strength no mortal oughtn't possess. As quickly as he tried to comfort him, he snatched the hand away and burst into tears. "I'm so, so sorry!" he wailed, both hands covering his eyes.

Another man walked alongside Finnian and crouched beside him, his lips twitching into a frown. "You didn't mean it, Finny," assured Bard, a cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth. "Let's get Mr. William to the infirmary."

Once he nodded in agreement, Baldroy picked Will's glasses up with the intention of putting them in Finny's care, but thought better of it. Instead, he folded the stems of the spectacles and tucked them at the top of his apron. Raising a hand, he scratched the back of his head and looked down to the beaten man on the ground, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the situation. "Mey-Rin should be back soon with something to carry you to the infirmary," the Phantomhive chef sighed. On cue, the Phantomhive maid came running toward them from the sickroom.

"Bard, Bard! I have it!" she called out, haphazardly carrying a white cloth stretcher nestled between her arm and torso. Baldroy waved his arm above him to beckon her in their direction. Mey-Rin made it to the three men, huffing from exertion as she placed the stretcher on the ground, dust billowing up from the impact. She pushed it close to William's front to roll him on the stretcher; stomach down.

"Me and Finny are gonna turn you over," Bard informed the bloodied brunet. "It's gonna be a bumpy ride."

William softly grunted, offering only a nod of his head. His yellow-green eyes closed and he drew in a deep breath, bracing for the pain. No amount of preparation could prepare him for what came next. Although the three servants were careful not to add further injury to the tender wounds, Will let out a curdling scream—every inch of his body shivering. The briefly clotted wounds reopened and blood trickled along his skin, following the curvature of his muscles. Beads of perspiration flowed down his face, the sweat pooling in his eyes. The immense pause caused him to suck in heavy gasps, but before he could take control, he blacked out, regaining consciousness shortly later.

"Sorry," Bard mumbled beneath his breath as he stood, scratching the back of his head. He moved out of William's sight, which caused a stream of bright sun to shine in his face, adding insult to injury as he hissed.

"Eh, Finny, can you give Will your hat?"

The gardener flushed at the question and his feet shuffled from side to side as he twiddled his thumbs. "M-My…" Finnian looked at Baldroy and subtly pointed to the tattoo on his neck.

With a thoughtful hum, Baldroy grabbed the goggles around his neck and pulled them off, offering the eyewear to the small boy. "How about you take these?"

Finnian beamed with child-like wonderment and removed his hat, exchanging it with the googles. "Thank you, Bard!"

"I'm gonna put this over your face to keep the sun out," the chef assured William, whom nodded in approval. With the hat settled over his face, Bard walked to the head of the stretcher and kneeled to grab the handles—Finnian at the other end. Together, the two lifted it as gently as possible and, with cemented grasps and footing, the three Phantomhive servants made their way to the Faustus infirmary.

"I wish the young master had arrived before this happened," sighed Finnian. "Do you think he would have stopped it, Mr. Bard?"

"I think he would've if he could've," the chef replied, focused on his steps onward.

"I hope Mr. Knox can patch him up, I do," Mey-Rin voiced, blushing as she thought of the other man.

"You seem to be liking that one, Mey," Bard pointed out, taking a wide step to avoid a hole in the path. The sudden movement made William jostle to the side, but thankfully, he remained on the stretcher. Still, the blond apologized at the pained grunt.

Upon hearing the chef's words, a rush of blood burst from the maid's nose. Quickly, she slapped a hand over it to catch the coppery fluid. "N-no!" she squealed in protest, her red cheeks darkening. "He said he's studying to be a doctor, is all!"

"I'm just messing with ya," Bard laughed.

Underneath the straw hat, hidden away from suspicion, William rolled his sore eyes as he listened to the conversation.

* * *

Hours later, William awoke only to be greeted by nightfall. He was unable to recall the arrival to the infirmary, nor when he received medical attention. Had he blacked out again?

The raven-haired reaper gently shifted, able to feel the bandages on his back. Albeit sore, he moved his arms to pillow his stiff neck and looked to the side, spotting his precious glasses on a tray. With great effort and fumbling about, he finally grabbed hold of them to slide back onto his face. When his vision adjusted, he realized there was a strange object next to his pillow. Closer inspection told him it was a pen, but at that moment, a warm glow appeared to scrawl across his forearm. The familiar, sloppy penmanship covered his skin in glowing ink and he squinted, leaning in to read.

_"I'm sorry."_

The Dispatch Supervisor closed his eyes, sighing an exhausted moan. What could he say? To form words was a difficult feat, but an even worse task to actually write on his skin once the apology disappeared.

_"It was necessary. I'll be fine."_

In his dark room, Ronald sat on the bed, his legs crossed and still dirty from the ceremony. He hadn't bothered to change his clothes, nor had he entertained bathing despite the fact he urinated himself. Shaken, he stared at his arm, biting at his lip as he watched William's response paint his own skin with the green ink. Once the message faded, he pressed the pen against the underside of his forearm.

 _"Please don't make me do it again, Will."_ He scrawled in return.

_"I'll try my best. It wasn't pleasant, but as I said; it was necessary."_

Tears started to slide down Ron's cheeks as the visions of William bleeding and screaming swam behind his closed eyelids. Will laid, waiting for the blond to reply, but after minutes of silence, he sensed his lover was crying.

 _"I've missed you."_ The glittering letters appeared one by one on the younger reaper's arm.

 _"It's been a while, I'd hope you'd miss me a little."_ Once the slate cleared, Ronald added, " _I missed you, too."_

William smiled at the response, though it turned into a mischievous smirk. " _What are you wearing, Mr. Knox?"_

_"Clothes."_

_"Would you kindly stand by your window and take off said garments?"_ William rarely instigated flirtation, but he was willing if it would lighten the blond's burden.

The young man's cheeks burned, but he hastily replied. _"I really hate you. Instead of teasing me, don't you have healing to do?"_

 _"The constant reminder of your hatred for me is why I love you so."_ William could feel Knox's eyes rolling. Pushing up his glasses, he looked out the opened window before him. It was unnaturally dark outside, the moon barely visible despite minimal clouds in the sky. A soft breeze filtered through the window and brushed through his dark hair, earning a content sigh. He was grateful for the chilly wind that kissed the abused flesh across the expanse of his back, yet he frowned once he noticed the conversation had ceased yet again.

_"Are they treating you well?"_

Ronald chewed his lip, unsure of how to reply. He could be honest, but the thought was fleeting. The truth would create unnecessary drama when there was more than enough to deal with on their plates. Lifting the collar of his dress shirt, he tried to hide the bruise on his neck and scribbled a half truth on his arm. " _Claude and Alois are creepy bastards. We're constantly being watched by Alois and the Faustus servants. It sucks, but we've had to come up with ways to communicate. Other than that, I'm fine."_ Hopefully, Will wouldn't reap him later.

_"And Mr. Humphries?"_

William pushed at the bridge of his glasses as a new answer appeared, squinting at the small text. _"The transformation is hard on him. Alan hides it, but I know he's tired and the Thorns aren't helping. I do my best to get him away from Claude so he can rest. It doesn't happen as often as it needs to."_

_"Miss Sutcliff?"_

The question made the Junior Office pause. Already, he told a half truth, but he hadn't the slightest clue how to explain the situation with Sutcliff. _"Something is wrong, Will. I mean seriously wrong. Grelle won't tell me what's happening and she tells me everything."_

_"Officer Sutcliff is a highly capable Shinigami."_

_"Yeah, but you just got here. I've never seen Grelle like this before. I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't worried."_ Ronald hissed once he realized the tip of the pen was digging into his skin—a sign of his frustration and concern.

_"I'll speak to her as soon as I'm able."_

_"No… We need to send her back to Headquarters."_

_"Dispatch may not let her abandon the investigation."_

_"Then we fucking send her off with Undertaker! I can't sit here anymore and…"_

The words stopped appearing mid-sentence, notifying him that Ronald had stopped writing. He was about to urge him on, but a bolt of light flashed through the sky. It was so bright, he had to shield his eyes from the blinding white shine that lit up the entire forest ahead of him. Cinematic records shot above the canopy of the surrounding trees and swayed in the air.

"Oh shit..." the blond muttered as he flew off the bed and ran to the window, jumping out only to silently land three stories below on the soft grass. He ran toward the tree line as fast as his legs enabled him, not leaving a sound or trail in his wake.

As Ron sprinted, he summoned his temporary scythe: a Corona Machete. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the demon butler jumping overhead, silverware tucked between each of his fingers. Both were prepared to strike.


	2. Chapter 2

On the ground, the blond reaper sprinted through the rustling greenery toward the white light brightening the center of the clustered trees. Ronald Knox hissed as the low hung branches snapped against his limbs and bushes riddled with jagged thorns ripped through his clothing, snagging his perspiring skin. Panting raggedly as he ran, the young agent gracefully hurdled over thick roots, fallen trees, and dirt banks. But regardless of his impeccable speed and agility, the terrain proved only to slow him down. He admonished himself for assuming his chosen route wouldn't hinder his journey; his misplaced judgement may have given the culprit additional time to flee.

In fear of the malefactor escaping yet again, Knox considered reaching for his smaller blade scythe and throwing it—the knife would get there before either pursuer did. Nevertheless, the demon butler was flying above and he couldn't risk the chance that Michaelis may get ahold of the little weapon. Ergo, the blond made a split second decision: he grabbed onto the nearest branch and hoisted himself up with a grunt, the tree limb creaking under the pressure. He nimbly hopped upward until he burst through the canopy's surface. Ron swiftly leapt from one tree to the other, each footstep barely touching their tops as he darted forth.

Moments later, the two chasers reached the inner rim of the encircled open space. Sebastian landed on a tree top, then propelled himself into the sky, with his right arm across his torso. He whipped it forward, his white-gloved fingers releasing the silvery cutlery into the white beam. Meanwhile, the younger man stealthily dropped to the ground with his Corona machete at the ready, preparing to throw it as he closed in on the suspect.

Suddenly, the lucent light went out in a blink of an eye resulting in both men missing their opportunity; their target had vanished. Michaelis' knives whizzed through the cloud of smoke that was left behind, the expensive pieces lodging themselves in an impressive tree trunk across the way. Ronald skidded to a halt to prevent himself from being immersed in the billowing pollution. He coughed and waved the offending fumes from his face. A light wind picked up and carried away the remaining wisps of smoke within the encircled clearing. The previously dimmed moon miraculously brightened, shining down upon the area as if it were an immense spotlight illuminating the abandoned display.

The blond-black haired Shinigami hesitantly approached the scene; his yellow-green eyes snapped shut. An infuriated groan burst passed his lips as he drove the tip of his scythe into the hard ground with due frustration. He took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it through his nose in an attempt to calm his pounding heart. Once his nerves had settled down, he opened up his eyes and let out of heavy sigh. He pulled the scythe from the ground and banished it.

"That's quite unfortunate," remarked Sebastian, his tone apathetic as he casually strolled past the reaper, making his way over to the trees where his silverware was embedded.

Ronald jumped as the butler spoke—the accompanying demon had slipped his mind. He glared at Michaelis' retreating form, his eyes portraying the evident disgust as he watched the man nonchalantly step over the deceased. Ignoring his tasteless comment, Knox closed the remaining gap between he and the small corpse directly sprawled in the center of the clearing. He withdrew an orange handkerchief from his trousers' pocket and covered his mouth and nose, hoping to block the scent from assaulting his senses. Ron crouched down next to the body, scanning it from head to toe.

A little girl, who appeared to be no older than seven years old, lain on the cold ground in a pastel yellow nightgown. Her arms were outstretched on either side of her torso. One leg was bent at the knee in an unnatural angle as if it had been repeatedly broken and left to improperly heal; the other, straight. The bairn's long silvery blond hair was fanned above her head. Her lifeless icy-blue eyes were wide open, their expression conveying the fear she must have felt before her life was taken away. The purplish-blue, oxygen deprived lips were agape as if she were screaming. The victim's body glowed and then dimmed, pulsating like a heartbeat slowly fading. When the light finally diminished, it left behind a ghostly pale visage on the young departed.

The light breeze returned. It whipped the innocent's silky hair into her face and across her neck. With added precaution, Knox removed each displaced strand, wary of how much he touched the corpse. Once her throat was uncovered, he leaned in for further inspection. There were scorch marks wrapped completely around it as if she were strangled by two pieces of intertwined rope. The skin was scorched with faint wisps of smoke protruding from the tears, carrying with them the distinct scent of burning flesh; Ronald gagged at the smell. The ravaged wounds were tattooed with abundant flecks of glittering gold.

Standing up, the young agent took a few steps back. He cocked his head to the side and zeroed in on the burnt grass. A perfectly sized shape encased the child within a charred circle; both hands and the single foot were seared as if they were attached to circle, completing the shape. Ron tore his attention from the marks on her flesh and focused it on the long cut in the middle of her chest; her cinematic records were reeling into the sky. Normally, only a Shinigami would be able to see its contents. However, the girl's records were playing at a snail's pace. Knox figured even a mere mortal may be able to see what was on each frame.

Ron turned his back on the victim and walked over to Michaelis, who was standing a fair distance away. He stopped and stood by the demon; an uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. A few minutes later, it was broken by the soft beating of wings overhead. Ron looked up at the cawing ravens that flew into the trees, jostling the green leaves from their branches as they settled on them.

"Sebastian…" said Ronald, his words apprehensive as he spoke.

"Yes?"

Knowing what needed to be done, he quickly weighed his options: should he get William and leave the body with the butler, or should he stay behind and send Michaelis to fetch his senior? Either way, it required that he ask a demon for a favor. He mentally grimaced at the thought.

"Can ya get William from th' infirmary?" he asked, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. The action forced him to hiss at the pressure and friction from his hand—he had forgotten about the bruises around his throat.

Sebastian tilted his head to the side, his dark hair falling over his red eyes. He smiled sardonically with a hint of elation. "As you wish," he replied, bowing low with his right hand on his chest.

Without another word, the Phantomhive butler turned in the direction of the infirmary and with rapid grace, he vaulted over the forest canopy.

* * *

After the light in the woods had disappeared, William returned his attention to his arm, scribbling anything that came to mind that would urge a reply from the blond reaper. He cursed loudly when he received nothing in response, despite his multiple attempts to reach the young man. Spears let out a grunt, his hand's grip around the little pen tightening as his frustration grew.

Just as the Dispatch Supervisor pressed the writing utensil against his arm once more, he heard the faint rustle of clothing. The vein in his temple throbbed and his mouth set in a frigid line as he sensed the identity of the new presence.

"Demon," hissed Will, his tone venomous.

The sound of well-polished, black dress shoes clicking on the white laminate floor approached William; it grew closer until it stopped at the head of the bed. Spears looked up at the butler standing tall before him, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back.

Sebastian looked down at the injured Shinigami with a smile bright with amusement. "The blond reaper sent me to collect you," he informed the man on the bed, his voice elegant and dignified.

"And why would he ask such a thing?"

"I presume he thought it best he stay with the body of the dead child," replied Sebastian. He migrated to stand next to the bed, William's eyes following his every footstep. "Due to your injuries, I'll have to carry you to the forest."

Albeit choosing to not leave the demon unsupervised with the child was the most logical and wisest decision Knox had made, he still loathed the necessity of procuring assistance from a lowly demon. He forced himself to reason with the situation. Will knew the boy wouldn't have sent Michaelis for him if their associates had been with him. Despite that knowledge, William's teeth clicked together in annoyance. He made no motion to move.

Sebastian cocked his head to the side and intently stared at the silent reaper, their eyes connecting with shared disgust. "Perhaps I shall leave you here and return to your adorable little husband. He has been quite lonely here without you, after all." His eyes glowed a crimson red, his smile twisted and charming as he taunted the injured reaper. "I think he could use a comforting hand and a warmer bed…especially after the things Claude Faustus does to him."

Spears' left eye twitched and his hands clenched into tight fits, his white knuckled fingers cracking under the pressure. The pen caught in his grip snapped cleanly in half. "Must I warn you to stay away from him?" Will growled through gritted teeth. "And what of Faustus?"

A soft chuckle escaped Sebastian's throat. "Worry not, reaper. I'm under orders from my master to not harm you nor your associates in any way during this investigation; no matter how delightful either would be," he mocked dryly, rolling his eyes as he waved the threat away. "As for the head of household, I believe you shall see soon enough."

He reached into the pocket of his black vest and pulled out his silver watch. It was getting late—he needed to get back to the Earl. "Shall we be on our way?" he asked, closing the pocket watch with a click before returning it to its place.

Reluctantly, the supervisor nodded his head. His movements were slow and agonizing as he carefully rolled onto his side and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Will cracked his neck from side to side and let out a low groan. He pushed up his glasses and looked at Sebastian. "I suppose it would be prudent for you to carry me on your back," he surmised, sighing with defeat in regards to his bruised ego.

Michaelis turned around and crouched down. With whatever pride and dignity he possessed at that moment, William wrapped his arms around the Phantomhive butler's shoulders, his legs around his waist. Sebastian hooked his arms underneath his thighs, smirking at the painful sound that expelled from the reaper's throat as they sped out the door.

* * *

Back at the scene, the blond Shinigami paced back and forth alongside the ring of dead grass, the black sod crunching under his footsteps. His nerves were riddled with anxiety. With one hand, he scratched the top of his head and chewed the thumb nail on the other. He spun around to walk along the circle in the opposite direction.

Feeling an increase of energy in his surroundings, Knox stopped in his tracks and looked in the direction of the portal opening before him—out stepped Othello and Alan, the portal closing quickly behind them. The two reapers made their way over to the young man.

"Hey guys," said Ronald with a small wave. Othello strolled up to him and held his palm in the air, silently asking for a high-five; Knox responded to the gesture by slapping his hand. Alan, who was free of disguise, greeted him with a kind smile.

Othello looked at the victim, letting out a long whistle as his eyes swept over it. The forensic scientist pulled out a blue latex glove from his white lab coat and put it on his right hand, the stretchy material snapping against his wrist as he did so. He approached the little girl and crouched down with his elbows on his knees. Othello took hold of her chin and gently moved her head from side to side, inspecting her throat. He let go and sighed.

"Just like the others," he remarked, his voice morose. He ran his left hand through his dark hair. He gazed up at Ron. "Where's everyone else?"

Ron flinched uncomfortably at the question. "Sebastian and I arrived first. Since you guys weren't here yet, I uh…had to send him to get Will."

Othello's eyebrows shot to the sky in disbelief. "I bet the boss loved that," he surmised. He stood up and walked over to stand next to Alan, his slippers sinking into the grass as he took his place.

"Have you called for the Undertaker?" asked Alan.

Before the young agent could answer, his eyes caught sight of Michaelis flying over the tree canopy with William clinging to his back. The three reapers watched as Sebastian gracefully landed in front of them. He abruptly let go of William, leaving him to haphazardly stagger backward. Ronald rushed over to William to catch him before he fell to the ground. The brunet let out a pained groan as the blond wrapped his arms around his waist in an effort to hold him up. "S-sorry, Will," he stammered, his face flushing with guilt.

Will hooked his arm around his young spouse's shoulders to steady himself, grimacing as he felt the bandages on his back shift. "It's alright, Ronald," the brunet assured him. He cupped his hand behind the boy's neck and yanked him into a kiss. He heard a faint, distressed whimper accompanied by a hand to his wrist as he held his lover in their small embrace. Will removed his lips from Ronald's. "What's wrong?" he asked, his stoic mask slipping to reveal a faintly quizzical and worried expression.

"N-nothing," answered Ron as he pulled the older man's hand from his neck. He bit his lip, refusing to meet his eyes.

The supervisor's brow furrowed with confused suspicion as he watched Knox sway uncomfortably from one foot to the other. William's gaze meandered to Ron's shirt and he tugged on the collar. He gently tilted his head to the side so he could study his neck under the moonlight. Spears looked at his husband, whose cheeks steadily darkened under his scrutiny. His eyes flicked over to Sebastian; the demon was standing nearby, his white-gloved fingers covering his mouth in a lazy attempt to hide his obvious smirk. William reexamined his companion's throat, his cold glare zeroing in on a distinct handprint. His fingers curled in the fabric of Ronald's shirt. The blond looked up at him.

"I'm fine, William," insisted Ronald, hearing the man's knuckles crack. The brunet's eyes connected with his abashed ones. "I promise," he added with a small, timid smile.

Despite the lie, William let go of his husband's clothing. He kissed his forehead and placed his hand on Ron's warm cheek, caressing his thumb along the smooth skin in a loving gesture. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips and moved to greet the two reapers.

"How are you feeling, Humphries?" William asked as he limped over to the smaller man, Ronald in tow. "Have you experienced any attacks?"

Alan held out his hand to greet his superior. "I'm alright, Mr. Spears. I haven't had an attack for a couple of weeks. Thankfully," he answered as the two of them shook hands. "Is Eric ok? I haven't heard from him."

Will summoned his scythe. "Now that I've been sent to assist you, Slingby has taken on a lot of responsibility as temporary supervisor. But I think he'll do quite well with his new duties." As he spoke, he pulled out a long scroll of paper from the glowing blades of his pruning shear—the paper rolled back up when it was removed. "He asked me to give this to you." William handed Alan the letter, who gladly accepted it.

He took a step closer to the smaller reaper. "Has Faustus been treating you well?" he inquired, his voice calm as the bruises around his lover's throat surfaced in his vision.

"Yes," nodded Alan. "Our 'marriage of convenience' is working far better than I'd hoped. We only see each other for appearance's sake. He hasn't slept in the same bed as me after the first week we arrived, so I haven't had to stay in disguise during the night."

"Wait," piped up Othello, cocking his head to the side, "Faustus hasn't been sleeping with you?"

Alan shook his head. "No. He sleeps in the small adjoining room."

"That's odd…" Ron stated, turning to look in the direction of the manor. "Why would he do that?" He scratched the top of his head, his mind wandering in confusion. A few silent minutes had passed before he peered over his shoulder at his fellow reapers. "Where's Grelle?"

* * *

The light of a half-melted white candle lodged into a tarnished brass candleholder illuminated the hallway leading to the servants' quarters. On tender and chafed feet, Grelle Sutcliff slowly made way to her meager bedroom, inordinately excited for her aching joints to find relief after another long day. Passing a few doors abuzz with the soft snores of the Phantomhive servants, she finally made it to her room. She swung open the creaking door and stumbled inside. Grelle kicked off the plain, one-inch black high heels she was forced to wear as soon as she crossed the threshold. An exhausted yawn escaped her throat as she walked over to the wardrobe pressed against the wall on the other side of the bed, lighting the candles on the small table sitting next to it.

The crimson reaper opened the wardrobe and stared into the long mirror with a cracked corner hanging on the inner door, taking in her ghastly appearance and dull ensemble. She was dressed head to toe in her issued uniform. On top of her head was a black head piece with white frills covering her once beautiful, vibrant crimson hair, which was tied in a knot at the base of her head. Her long sleeved, black dress was covered by a white frilly pinafore that spanned the length of her outfit, tied in the back into a bow; a white Peter Pan collar donned the neckline.

Grelle pulled the pin from her bun, allowing her long brittle, red locks to cascade down her back; dull colored tendrils fluttered to the floor at her feet. She brushed her hair over her shoulder and reached behind her neck to begin unbuttoning her uniform. As she popped the button closest to the nape, a knock tapped on her bedroom door. She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight, a dreadful and pained expression on her face. She bowed her head to the hardwood floor and silently whimpered. The tap on the door sounded again and it creaked open, an intruder stepping over the threshold.

Slow, heavy footsteps walking with only one purpose strolled up behind her. One hand wearing a white glove was placed on her shoulder, the other tilting her head to the side. Grelle winced as dark hair fell over her neck, her skin crawling as open mouth kisses were pressed along her skin. Beneath the dark hair, golden eyes reflected in the mirror, staring into her yellow-green ones.

"Good evening, Mr. Faustus."

* * *

"Well?" asked Ronald, swiveling to face the group. William stood there leaning against his scythe while Alan and Othello stared at one another. "Have ya seen her?" he snapped, throwing his arm in the air.

"She could be sleeping, Ronnie," offered Alan.

The young man let out a sarcastic huff. "Alan-senpai, do ya really think Grelle would miss any sort of action?"

"No, but even Grelle has her limits. I'm sure she's just resting," the smaller man insisted. He briefly glanced at his superior. "It's been a trying day for all of us."

"But—"

"Ronald, after I'm assigned to my duties tomorrow morning, I will speak to Sutcliff," interrupted William with a firm, authoritative tone, effectively cutting off his husband's impending argument. "For now, we must tend to the matter at hand. Is that understood?" He waited patiently for Knox to nod his head in agreement. "Good."

Spears fixated his attention on the little girl laying on the ground. In an effort to prevent his wounds from reopening, he utilized his scythe as a makeshift staff, gingerly walking over to the victim. He beheld her tampered cinematic records, taking in the pictures as they slowly played. His eyes honed in on a particular frame—one that was frayed, causing the reels to repeatedly skip at the altered section before continuing. "Call for the Undertaker," he ordered. Will let out a deep, exhausted sigh and readjusted his glasses. "The child has been laying here long enough."

The ravens perched in the trees flapped their wings in anticipation. Knox glanced up at the birds and whistled the mortician's favorite tune—one that always threw him into a fit of giggles, regardless of the reason for his summoning. The birds cawed in acknowledgement and took off, their wings batting the ovate leaves from the branches as they began their journey to the Undertaker.


	3. Chapter 3

**Months earlier**

In mortal London stood a young man high upon the roof of a red brick building overlooking a dim, dank alleyway cluttered with trash. Leaning against a lawnmower with his elbow on its handle and his chin cradled in the palm of his hand, the reaper watched a scurrying rat being chased by a stray cat hot on its tail. A lopsided smirk twitched the corner of his lips when the hunter jumped in a puddle of dirty water, screeching and hissing at the offending liquid as it promptly jumped back, sliding in the mud in its haste to run away; the poor thing lost track of its prey.

Now that the show was over, the bored Shinigami let out an exasperated huff of air, blowing the blond fringe from his forehead as he continued to wait…and wait…and wait for his mentor. He propped a foot on top of the body of his death scythe and began impatiently tapping it against the metal. Ronald looked at his silver watch and groaned when he saw the time.

"She's late," he grumbled through closed lips, his muffled voice laced with annoyance. Knox placed his free hand on the lawnmower next to his elbow. One by one he tapped his black-gloved encased fingers along the handle, his frustration growing by the minute. Grelle had asked him if he'd like to join in on her last reap of the day and told him to arrive an hour prior when he readily agreed. The two reaps were set to happen in twenty minutes and the woman was late! "Where th' fuck is she?" he asked aloud. The blond rolled his bicolored eyes. Most likely shopping, he thought to himself, or fooling around with that crazy mortician.

Ronald reached into the pocket of his black trousers and pulled out his mobile, ready to place an angry phone call to the redhead when he heard thumping footsteps approaching from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Grelle hopped from one building to another, her chainsaw in one hand, the other carrying a blue gift bag with a silver bow attached to one straw handle; her signature red coat fluttered behind her. He straightened up and turned around to face the incoming Crimson Death, scowling with one hand on his hip.

"Ronnie, darling~!" exclaimed Sutcliff, smiling brightly as she vaulted over the last alleyway separating the two reapers. She sauntered toward the young man and leaned in to kiss his cheeks, leaving red lipstick prints on each side.

"Where th' hell have ya been, senpai?" Ron complained, rubbing the makeup from his face with the back of his hand. "Ya said you'd be here an hour ago!" He let his arm fall to his side, loudly slapping it against his thigh.

Grelle shot him a scathing look, not appreciating the little brat's tone in the slightest. "I was out shopping and got carried away," she explained, waving the purchase in his face. She took a step back. "What do you think of my new look!" she asked, twirling a few times. The elder reaper stopped and placed her chainsaw over one shoulder and posed with a hip jutted out, holding up the death sign; her lips spread into a wide smile.

Knox studied her body from head to toe. She was clad in skin tight black pants and her white dress shirt was covered with a suggestively form-fitted brown waistcoat. Grelle stood tall and proud in high-heeled, red and black boots that went halfway to her knees. The red and white striped tie she usually wore was transformed into an elegant bow situated off to the left side of her neck. Her long crimson hair was fashioned into a high ponytail. Ronald silently thought that if she had a riding crop instead of a chainsaw, she would have looked like a colorful dominatrix.

"Ya look great. But are ya sure ya can work in that? It looks a bit—" he began, but the compliment died on his tongue and his smile fell from his cheeks when he noticed a particular part of her face. The blond Shinigami's mouth opened and closed in shock. He raised a hand and pointed—a new outfit wasn't the only change. "G-Grelle-senpai…" he stuttered, taking a step back, "what did ya do to your teeth!"

Sutcliff waved his words away. "Oh honey, a beautiful lady can work in anything and needs to look good while doing so!" she insisted, her grin widening and brightening into a shark-fanged smirk. She clicked her teeth together. "Aren't they fabulous, darling? Undie loves them!" she boasted and clicked teeth again.

A nervous laugh escaped the younger reaper's lips. He stared at the woman with a slightly awkward smile and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yep!" he agreed with a nod of his head, deciding it was best to go along with it not knowing what the redhead might do if he were to disagree. Ron quickly turned away. He inched closer to the edge of the roof and peered down into the alley in search of the couple listed in the Death Book. "Let's keep out of trouble this time. I have some things to do and I rather not get stuck with overtime, again."

As he voiced his desires, a man and a woman walked arm in arm on the ground. Laughter floated from below when the man tripped over a discarded box; his companion grabbed him before he could slip in the mud.

On her tiptoes, Grelle excitedly trotted up behind Ronald. She leaned in close to his ear, her lips touching its shell. "Do one of those 'some things' involve Willy…" she whispered in a sultry voice, her breath tickling the blond reaper's skin. "…in bed, darling?"

A bright pink hue flooded Knox's cheeks and spread down his neck and up to the tips of his ears. _Yes_. "Nope!" he squeaked, pulling on his loose black tie. The coloring on his skin deepened when he felt his mentor's lips curve against his ear.

"So Ronnie...how good _is_ Willy in bed? I've positively been dying to know," Grelle teased.

The scarlet searing the boy's cheeks could've scorched the sun. He quickly lifted his arm and pushed the ends of his jacket sleeve back from his wrist. "Oh, look at the time!" he exclaimed, his voice scaling an octave as he checked his watch. "Better get ready, senpai," warned the blond, leaning over the edge.

The crimson reaper stepped from behind him and stood by his side. "I'm always ready!" she stated with a hand on her hip, her scythe on her shoulder. Following Ronald's example, Sutcliff leaned forward to glance down at the scene unfolding before them.

At one end of the alley, two men strolled toward the young couple; neither were paying attention to the approaching attackers. The first was carrying a pocket knife in his hand, repeatedly flipping it in the air and catching it by its handle as he took a long pull of his cigarette. The other picked up an empty brown beer bottle. He stood up and placed the bottle against the wall, scraping the glass along the brick as he walked. The sound caught the couple's attention and they stopped, staring warily at the men holding the weapons. Quickly they turned around to walk in the opposite direction, only to find a third man was creeping behind them. A terrified shriek burst passed the woman's lips as the second man holding the bottle bashed it against the stone, cracking the glass from the base of the bottle into sharp jagged ends.

Watching the gang attack the young man and woman—most likely for money—the redhead squealed with delight as the blood of each was spilled onto the cobblestone. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, listening to the helpless cries and moans of the mortals dying below.

"Ronnie, would you like to make a bet?" Grelle asked gleefully, memorized by the art left behind by the criminals. Red truly was the most beautiful and seductive of colors.

Knox peeled his gaze away from their targets and regarded his senior carefully. The logical part of him knew that if he did make a bet with her, he would most likely lose—like every other time. However, the other housing his manly pride always tempted him, telling him that one day he will beat his senpai, and will finally be on her level. Against his better judgment, he nodded. "Alright. What do ya have in mind?"

Grelle tapped her black-gloved index finger against her chin. "Hmm…" she hummed in thought. A bright, wicked smile spread across her face. She picked up the gift bag that was next to her feet and showed it to her apprentice. "If I win, bring this to work tomorrow!"

Ron looked down at the bag with a confused look. "If I win?"

"We party from dusk till dawn, drinks on me!" she offered, knowing the boy wouldn't be able to resist such a thing. He loved to party, after all.

Shouts of fleeing the scene were heard from the ground, the attackers knocking over wooden boxes and smashing glass as they ran away from the murdered couple, their pockets heavy with coin.

The blond Shinigami smirked. "Same bet?"

"Let's see who can collect the fastest," agreed Grelle with a fox-like grin. She jumped down into the alley, landing gracefully like a cat next to the man laying in a pool of his own blood.

Knox hopped onto his lawnmower and rode it down to the cobblestone ground, landing alongside the woman. He looked at her and grimaced. Her throat was slashed and judging by the angle of her neck, it was broken. Without a word, Ron pulled the lawnmower's cord and his scythe roared to life. He pressed the rotating blades on the middle of the deceased's chest and released her cinematic records, his blond-black hair blowing about his face as the reels whizzed by. A few seconds later, he turned off the gardening tool—the records were collected and with a triumphant smile, he opened his Death Book. "Ha! Looks like I won!" he beamed, stamping 'Complete' next to the woman's name and picture. "Finally," he added under his breath.

Before he could say another word, a bag drifted to the ground and settled by his feet. He looked down at the package, then gazed up from where it was delivered. On the roof stood Sutcliff, waving at him with her scythe in a 'hello' gesture. The color drained from his face.

"Honey!" called Grelle, giggling. "Took you long enough!"

With profound reluctance—as well as feeling like an utter fool—Ron bent down, grunting with one leg in the air as he picked up the bag containing whatever he was to take to work the next day. He opened it and groaned. "Fuck," he grumbled, beyond annoyed with himself for being tempted into such an ending.

"See you tomorrow, darling~!" said Grelle. She hopped to the next building, gliding over Ronald's head on her way to see a particular sweetheart.

The young Shinigami childishly batted a hand in goodbye in whichever direction the redhead was heading. He looked at one end of the alley, then the other in search of any humans who may be walking in either direction; the coast was clear. Using his death scythe, he created a portal and stepped through to Shinigami London and walked back to Headquarters with his pride barely in tact.

* * *

Grelle gracefully dropped to the ground in front of a large, beige, brick building and straightened up, looking up at the sign reading 'UNDERTAKER' situated beneath a skull. She let out a low, smitten squeal and wiggled her hips with excitement at the prospect of seeing the handsome mortician. Sutcliff pushed open the wooden door, the hinges squeaking and the bell above it tinkling gleefully as she stepped through the entrance.

"Undie~!" the crimson reaper sang, closing the door and locking it behind her. She sauntered into the dimly-lit parlor, her high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she walked toward a black coffin laying off to the side of the front counter. Grelle shrugged her shoulders, letting the red coat slip off her arms; she folded it and placed it on the table next to the funeral box supporting a small lantern. She hopped up onto the casket and sat down, crossing her long legs.

"Hiding from me, are we, darling?" she asked, tugging the black gloves off each hand finger by finger, bobbing her foot. Once the gloves were removed and tossed off to the side, the redhead reached behind her head and pulled on the hair tie, allowing the silky crimson tendrils to cascade down her back. She uncrossed her legs and unzipped the boots; both fell to the wooden floor with a loud thump. Sutcliff glanced around the shop, calling for the older reaper again—only silence answered.

Grelle opened her mouth to shout at the top of her lungs a few choice curses directed toward her love, but before she could utter a word, she jumped and let out a tiny shriek. The redhead glanced down at the makeshift seat with a curious expression.

On the underside of the coffin, she felt the vibrations of something knocking on the lid. Flashing a wide, sparkling smile, Grelle rapped her knuckles to the beat of a little tune against the dark wood. The muffled sound of giggling and the tapping of a song echoed her response. She hopped off the burial box and turned around, lifting its lid.

A bare-chested Undertaker sat up and knocked off his long black top hat, his silver hair sliding from his shoulders. "Hello m'lady," he said, smiling brightly and playfully wiggling his fingers in a 'hello' gesture. He reached out to lend a hand to the younger reaper, helping her climb into the casket. Grelle straddled his hips and wrapped her arms around his neck; the mortician placed his hands on her sides. "You didn't bring it, love?" he pouted, placing a chaste kiss on her lips.

Grelle brushed the silver fringe from her lover's forehead and stared into his yellow-green eyes. "I'm sorry. I made a bet with Ronnie while we were on a reap. I couldn't resist tempting my junior," she explained as she ran a long, red-painted fingernail along the scar across the older reaper's face. "But he's a gorgeous boy. He'll make us both proud." She leaned in to press a soft kiss against Undertaker's pale lips, tugging her red and white striped tie loose as she did so. Once the accessory was removed, she gently pushed the man back onto the soft, silk lining of the coffin.

The mortician returned the smooch, the sound of his lips smacking as she broke the kiss and forced him to lay down. While she was sitting up, Undertaker slid his hands up her sides and chest, flicking open the buttons of her brown waistcoat. He unbuttoned the white blouse and began working on her lacy bra, but was stopped when she placed her hand on his.

"I can do that, darling. Hand's up!" she ordered, dangling the tie above his face. Smiling insanely, Undertaker lifted his hands and pressed his wrists together. Sutcliff wrapped one end of the material around them and with her half-bared chest hovering over him, she attached the other end of the tie to the silver handle at the top of the casket. Grelle ran her lips down the length of his arm, leaving a trail of red lipstick as she made her way to his ear. She kissed his neck, nipping the pale, soft flesh. Sitting up, the redhead took off her waistcoat and blouse, then threw them across the parlor.

"What do you have in store for l'il old me?" Undertaker asked huskily, his eyes hooded and filled with lust.

Grelle bit her lip and smiled seductively, reaching behind to unhook her white, lacy bra. She slowly slid the straps off each shoulder and haphazardly tossed it away. "That's better, hmm?" she hummed and wiggled in the mortician's lap.

Her eyes trained on his, Grelle slowly slid down the length of Undertaker's body, pressing kisses against his chest until she reached the waistline of his black pants. The man watched her unzip them with a mischievous smile.

"Don't bite too hard, love," he muttered as she leaned to the side, blowing out the candle in the lantern.

* * *

Dropping his pen onto a stack of paperwork, William placed both elbows on his desk and pressed his black-gloved fingertips against his temples. A soft groan escaped his lips and his tired eyes closed as he tried to massage away the headache that had formed with soothing circles. Slowly he reopened his eyes, only to quickly shut them; his office lights seemed unnaturally bright, increasing the pain shooting through his skull. Sighing, the supervisor forced them opened again and carefully stood up, grabbing the empty mug from his desk as he walked out of his office.

On his way to retrieve yet another warm cup of coffee, William covertly glanced around at the other employees scattered amongst the numerous cubicles, mentally taking notes of those responsibly completing their work, while the others were engaged in various forms of nonsense that was deemed inappropriate under the clock. As he approached the break room, he heard snippets of a conversation and laughter flowing freely past the door. William strolled in to find Ronald sitting on the counter chatting with Alan.

"You should know by now, Ronnie," Alan scolded in a light tone, giggling.

"Ugh," Ronald groaned in an exasperated tone. "I know...But she really has a way of making me think—" the blond reaper paused, and turned his head toward the entrance, watching his spouse enter the break room. He quickly stuffed the prize from Grelle into the bag and slid it behind him. "Hey, Will," greeted Ronald, rubbing the back of his neck. A pink hue dusted his cheeks.

Spears glanced at his young lover, taking in the embarrassed expression on his face—clearly he wasn't meant to see something. Considering that the color on Knox's cheeks was darkening by the second, he believed the situation most likely involved some sort of an encounter with Grelle. Although he maintained his stoic demeanor, the faintest trickle of amusement lightly sparkled in his eyes and the sides of his lips twitched into a barely noticeable smirk. Deciding to leave the matter unaddressed for the moment, William focused his attention on the smaller reaper sipping his cup of warm brew.

"Good evening, Mr. Humphries. I hope everything is well?" he asked, holding out his hand. Will looked Alan up and down, studying his appearance and complexion. Alan's skin was still pale and gray circles donned his eyes. However, he noticed there was a healthy blush on his cheeks. His brown hair appeared to be strong and soft–much unlike its previous brittle and frail state.

Alan took his superior's hand in his own, and shook it in greeting. "Yes, sir. I'm feeling much better," he said with a smile. "I was actually on my way to see Othello, but I stopped when I saw this one," he pointed at Ron and his bruised ego, "brooding in the corner." He went to take another sip, and upon realizing that his mug was empty, he walked up to the coffee station for a refill. Humphries turned to face the two reapers. "If you'll excuse me," he asked, nodding his head before leaving the break room.

"Bye, Alan-senpai," called Ronald, waving at his retreating form. Exhaling a long breath of air in the form of a soft whistle, the blond turned to William, whom was massaging the bridge of his nose. "What's wrong, Will?"

"I'm quite alright, Ronald," he assured the younger reaper. The supervisor placed his mug on the counter and reached for the coffee pot, pouring a generous amount into the cup. He added milk and one cube of sugar. "I have a slight headache, but it's nothing to fret over," he added, stirring his beverage.

Ron leaned over and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from William's forehead. A bright blush bloomed on the elder reaper's cheeks and he cast a covert glance at the door.

"It's just you and me, Will," pointed out the blond, grinning at the coloring on his older half's face.

"Yes, you're right," Will agreed. He took a sip of coffee, the pink of his cheeks deepening as Ron continued to brush his hair back into place. He cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses. "Have you finished your assignments?"

The young man hopped down from the counter and leaned against it, crossing his arms and ankles. "Yep," he replied, emphasizing the 'p' with a pop of his lips. "I was done with mine a couple of hours ago, but I joined Grelle-senpai on her last reap."

"And how was that adventure?" questioned the brunet, his eyebrows slightly lifting. He watched as his spouse shifted his stance in an effort to hide the bag behind him. William momentarily considered asking about whatever torture Sutcliff had in store for him, but he figured he would find out in the morning.

"Ah, well...ya know Grelle," Knox murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I see," acknowledged Will, a faint trace of amusement flowing through his usually monotone voice. He hid a small smile behind the rim of his coffee mug.

"A heads up: she's added a few new things to her wardrobe."

William placed his cup on the counter with a thump, the liquid sloshing against its sides. "Dare I ask?"

Ron gazed up at William, biting back a grin. "Grelle sharpened her teeth. Now she looks like some sort of shark. According to her, Undertaker loves them." He wagged his eyebrows.

"Thank you for sharing that bit of unnecessary information," the brunet reaper muttered, dropping his face into the palm of his hand. Will drew in a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, and slowly exhaled through his nostrils. He lifted his head and stared down at his lover. "I suppose I must have yet another conversation with the woman in regards to her appearance. Between you and Miss Sutcliff, I'm astounded I've managed to live this long."

Wholly aware that the older man had a point, and lacking in anything better to defend himself with, Ron stuck out his tongue. Spears rolled his eyes.

"Anyway...are ya done for the day, or are ya stuck with overtime, again?" A frown tugged at Ronald's lips, catching the slight change in William's expression.

"Considering the endless pile of paperwork on my desk, I fear overtime is inevitable," sighed William with regret.

Checking the time, Ron straightened up and turned to face Will head on. "Let's get th' paperwork and go home. I'll help ya. Once we're finished, I'll make ya some dinner."

Will raised his eyebrows. "Although I appreciate the sentiment of your offer to make us a meal, I prefer to keep our home in tact."

"Hey! I resent that!" Ron shot back, playfully. "I'll have you know: I pour a mean glass of water!"

A smirk flitted across the brunet's face. He placed a gloved hand on his husband's cheek. "I apologize. Your skill at pouring said drink is superb," he admitted, gently running his thumb along Ron's cheekbone.

The blond rolled his eyes at the sarcastic praise, but smiled brightly, nonetheless. Ron popped up on his toes and placed a chaste kiss on William's cheek. "I'm hungry, let's go."

"I should've known," muttered William under his breath as Ron stepped around him.

Catching the man's words, Ronald slapped his rear. William gave a start, and glared over his shoulder at the troublesome young reaper winking at him.

* * *

Hearing a knocking sound on his laboratory door, Othello looked up and saw Alan standing in the entrance.

"Hey, Humphries," greeted Othello, returning his attention to his clipboard. He beckoned the smaller reaper with one hand; the other hastily scribbling notes on the form he was filling out.

Alan crossed the threshold and walked toward the forensic scientist, his black dress shoes clicking on the white laminate floor as he made his way through the lab. He passed by numerous tables covered with microscopes of various sizes and multiple chemistry stations. One station in particular caught his eye, and he over walked to it. Attached to the stand was a 250 mL flask hovering about three inches above a burner set to low heat. The liquid gently bubbling inside the flask was a bright yellow; tiny puffs of steam floated from it. Alan leaned in a bit and using one hand, he waved his hand above the flask, wafting the strong scent of the fluid toward him.

"Smells good, huh?" marveled Othello, his wide smile dazzling and his eyes sparkling with admiration over the scent. "I love bananas."

Alan looked over his shoulder. "It does smell nice," he agreed. He inhaled the fruity aroma once more, then turned to walk in the direction of the forensic scientist. The shorter reaper pulled out a gray-colored cushioned chair and sat down. He held out his hand.

Othello shook Humphries' hand, his pen wedged between his ring and pinky fingers as he returned the gesture. "How ya feeling?" He glanced over his patient's form, noting the positive changes.

"A lot better. I have more energy and I'm holding down food, too."

"That's great," stated Othello with a smile, setting down his clipboard on the desk. "Lemme show ya something." He pushed his chair back, the wheels squeaking as he road it over to a table housing a beige and black microscope. Putting an elbow on the table and cradling his chin in the palm of his hand, he glanced over at the smaller reaper. "Before I show you this slide, have you noticed any changes to the color of your veins?"

Alan nodded. "There are patches on some areas of the Thorns that are lighter."

Othello stretched out an arm and reached over to a box containing slides of samples taken from Alan over time. He lifted the lid and chose the one marked '#1' followed by the date, carefully sliding it onto the stage of the microscope and securing it in place with the clips. Lastly, he clicked the illuminator under the stage on, shining its light upward and through the glass slide. The scientist made a gesture urging his fellow reaper forward.

Alan stood before the microscope, placing one hand at its base and the other one knob on the tube. He looked into the eyepiece, adjusting both the course and fine focus, the gears clicking until he was able to see the contents of the slide.

Othello took a clear stirrer and carefully pointed at it. "This is the first sample of the vein in your foot we took a few months ago."

Alan zeroed in on the slide, a small frown tugging at his lips. The color of the blood vessel was an inky black, and under the lens, he could see that it occasionally wiggled between the press of the two glass slides, expelling a dark liquid as it moved. Humphries increased the microscope's focus and looked at the fluid. Upon closer inspection, he saw black parasites rapidly slithering through and around the vein. He glanced over at Othello, silently telling him to show him another slide.

Gently, Othello removed it from the stage and returned it to the box. He continued this process, showing Alan each sample taken over the months. Finally, he placed the slide containing the most recent sample under the lens. "This is from the same part of the vein we've been collecting from over the months after that section healed. As ya can see, each one looks lighter than the previous."

Alan looked into the eyepiece and saw that the vein was gray in color—no fluid or parasites moving about. "It looks like the vein died, maybe? Or dehydrated," he commented, then looked up at the other reaper and pushed up his glasses.

Removing the slide, Othello put it back in its container and turned off the microscope illuminator. He stood up and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat before walking to an adjoining room containing medical supplies and equipment.

"Well, we know the Thorns are tiny parasitic records transferred from hostiles," he said, looking over his shoulder at the shorter reaper following him. Once the two men were inside the room, Othello pulled back a white curtain and bade Alan to sit in the proper chair meant for blood collection. He sat down on a small, round, backless swivel chair. He crossed his legs and bobbed one foot, his slipper quietly tapping its bottom.

"As their host, they attach themselves onto your veins. Once hooked on, they burrow in and slowly eat away at it, replacing themselves as the tissue at the same time—hence the black marks and vessels. Then they grow and release some babies into your blood stream. What we found for you is that they've multiplied to the point where they have reached your pulmonary artery."

"Which is why breathing can be difficult at times," sighed Alan, "and my chest hurts."

"Mmhm." Othello reached over to the tray containing a long plastic tube attached to an encased needle . "What we don't want is the Thorns reaching your aorta. So far, we've been lucky that they've passed through cardiac system without latching on to anything," he stressed, opening a drawer and pulling out three oblong vials, as well as a blue tourniquet.

"What does the gray mean?" asked Alan, watching Othello tug and stretch the elastic band. He took off his black jacket and unbuttoned his white shirt, removing his right arm from the sleeve. He placed it on the flat surface of the arm-rest, and turned it over to expose the underside of his forearm.

"It's possible that the tissue is dying, which could mean the Thorns are dying—or at least slowing down," he offered, tightly wrapping the tourniquet around Alan's upper arm as Othello spoke. "It's a good sign that the color is changing. Let's cross our fingers and hope for that nice, healthy veiny color, eh?"

He put on white latex gloves, then pressed on a blood vessel, forcing it to the surface. Once he was satisfied with the chosen vein, he ripped open an alcohol wipe and sanitized the area above it. Othello uncapped the needle and pressed it against Humphries' skin. "Big pinch!" he warned, and slid the needle in.

"What's Eric been up to?" Othello asked in an effort to distract Alan. He connected a vial at the end of the tube in order to collect the blood slowly flowing through it.

"Well...Things have been a bit strained between us," sighed Alan, watching the blood pour into the vial. "I worry about being a burden to him. Eric insists I'm not, but I don't want him to suffer because of me. I haven't told him about what we're doing; I don't want to get his hopes up and then be disappointed if this doesn't work out." He looked up at Othello with a sad look in his eyes. "I feel it's best that we spend some time apart."

Othello peered at him over his glasses. "The intensity of his lovey-dovey is actually a bit gross, but he loves you. He'd stay by your side no matter what could happen, ya know that." He unhooked the full vial and shook it before replacing it with another. "Let him be there for you. If ya really feel like you should put some distance between you two, tell him—don't let him guess and worry."

"I know he loves me and I love him, or else I wouldn't have married the frustrating man," Alan laughed softly. "But you're right. I should try to explain how I feel to him, even if the stubborn man doesn't listen." He cleared his throat and readjusted his glasses. "Have you made a move on Grelle, yet?" he asked, aiming to shift the focus of the conversation.

Blushing a scarlet red, Othello stared intently on the third vial filling with coppery liquid. "Uh...no," he admitted. He removed the vial and shook it before placing it on the tray. "I'm pretty sure she has no idea who I am—no matter how many times we talk." He removed the needle and placed a piece of gauze on the pin-sized prick in Alan's arm, tapping it in place. He pushed the chair back with the soiled needle in hand, carefully disposing it in the red container attached to the wall. He took off the gloves and put them in another disposal container. "She's beautiful...and I'm probably not her type. Isn't she seeing someone, anyway?"

Alan put his arm back in his shirt and began buttoning it up. "Actually, I'm not sure. I could ask Ronnie, if you like. In the meantime, I think you should talk to her. It wouldn't hurt to try, right?" he reasoned. He put on his black suit jacket.

"Maybe I'll talk to her one day. Can't promise anything though." Othello stood up and walked over to the sink to wash his hands. He snatched out a few brown paper towels and hastily dried them.

"I believe you have a shot with her," declared Alan with an encouraging smile. The forensic scientist shook his head, smirking.

"I'll run the test on the blood work and let you know what's up."

"Alright then," said Alan, shaking the other man's hand as a goodbye. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Othello." He turned around and left the room.

A few minutes later, Alan stood outside Eric's office. He took in a deep breath, slowly exhaling it through his nose to calm his rattling nerves.

"Eric?" voiced Alan, tapping on the partially open door. Not waiting for a response, he stepped into the office and walked toward the Scotsman sitting at his desk.

"Hey, Al," said Eric, gazing up at his husband. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand through his blond hair.

Alan flashed a small, bashful grin. "Mr. Spears assigned me to a few simple reaps this evening. Would you like to join me?"

An awkwardly surprised expression crossed Eric's face, which he promptly covered with a beautiful smile. "Aye, I'll help ye," he agreed. The Scottish reaper opened the desk drawer and shoved his paperwork inside. He stood, then stepped around his desk and hesitantly held out his hand for Alan to take. A sigh of relief escaped his throat when the smaller reaper placed his hand in his own; he squeezed it gently as they walked out of the office.

* * *

Half conscious in bed, Ronald rolled onto his back and groaned as slivers of bright light from the ajar door shone against his closed eyelids. He reached across to his partner's side in search of his warm body to cuddle against, patting the bed only to find an empty space. The blond opened his eyes and yawned, blinking the sleep away; he turned to the window to find it still dark outside. Where was William? He turned to the other side and heard a noise: the shower was running.

It was a struggle, but Ron managed to push himself up and throw both legs over the edge of the mattress. With another yawn, he lifted his arms and stretched his joints before standing to walk toward the bathroom door, his bare feet slapping on the cherry wood floor. Opening it, he was instantly greeted by hot steam filling the room. Pulling off his orange and white striped bottoms, Ron tossed them in the direction of the hamper. He quietly slid the shower door open and stepped in behind William, hooking both arms around his waist—resting a cheek against his husband's back.

William jumped at the unexpected touch. He glanced over his shoulder, the water running down the drenched brunet locks. "I'm surprised to see you awake at such an hour," he remarked, turning around in his lover's arms, blocking the stream of water from hitting him in the face. The young man looked up at him. William ran a hand through the boy's wet hair, his stubborn cowlick remaining as it was in a comical way. "I never thought I would see the day where Ronald Knox willingly got out of bed on his own accord without kicking or screaming."

Ron lifted up his eyebrows. "It's pretty early, even by your standards." He grabbed the soapy sponge in William's hand and used it to caress his chest, washing his skin. With his opposite hand, he placed it on Will's shoulder and gently massaged the tense muscle. "What's wrong, Will?"

William sighed, silently enjoying the sensation of his lover washing him. "It seems my duties are getting the best of me lately. Sleep is harder to come by," he admitted.

"Ya can't keep working yourself into a second death," said Ron, lathering up the sponge. "I can't help ya with everything, but ya know ya can give me some of your paperwork. I'll take up extra overtime."

Will took the sponge and placed it on the shower caddy behind him, just to wrap his arms around the blond's waist who draped his own around his neck. He placed a quick kiss to the top of his head.

Ronald nuzzled underneath William's chin. "I can't have ya clockin' out on me, Will. Who's gonna keep me in line and make sure I eat my vegetables, especially th' green ones?"

"That is an excellent point," William muttered into his hair. He rubbed soothing circles on Ron's lower back. "You do seem to be a danger to yourself—and others—at times. I suppose it's, indeed, necessary to maintain a close watch on your reckless ways."

Ron popped up on his toes and kissed Will. "Seeing as you're stuck with me, you're the man for th' job."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," declared Will.

The brunet lowered his mouth to his lover's and kissed him again. He felt the slow curve of a smile against his lips and he pulled Knox flush against his body, cupping the back of his head with one hand. He slid his tongue into the blond's mouth, the young man's tongue caressing his own.

Moaning, Ronald tightened his hold around the older man's neck, deepening the kiss as he pulled him into the corner of the shower. William pressed him against the white tile and broke the kiss. The older male dragged his lips down his throat, nipping and suckling the damp skin. Knox caressed a hand down Will chest and slid it between the press of their wet bodies, curling his fingers around his lover's length.

William's breath caught and a low groan escaped his throat at the feel of his companion firming stroking him. He lightly scraped his teeth along Ron's collar bone and licked up his neck, capturing the blond's lips in a heated kiss. As his tongue warmly wrapped around the other's, he reached into the caddy hanging from the shower head and grabbed the small bottle of lubricant, popping it open and squeezing a bit onto his fingers before putting it back. Ron lifted his leg onto William's hip, bending it around his waist. Spears reached beneath the younger man and entered him with a slippery finger.

"Ah!" gasped Ronald, his lips parting in a low moan as William's finger thrust in and out of his body. He continued to stroke the elder reaper's hardened shaft, his ministrations faltering when Will slid in a second finger, thrusting harder and scissoring the digits inside him.

Increasing the force behind the thrusts, William curled his fingers and massaged the little spongy lump on passing, drinking in the blond's lustful cries.

"Will!" Ron panted, dropping his head back against the shower wall as his spouse steadily pumped his fingers. His body jerking each time the digits pressed on the spot that made his body sing.

With a final, firm rub on the younger reaper's prostate, William removed his fingers and placed his hands on his hips. He pushed him up the wall and aligned himself up with the prepared entrance.

His cheeks flushing brightly, Ronald slowly lowered himself onto the brunet's erection, letting out a pleasurable gasp as took in his length.

Once he was completely sheathed inside Knox's tight heat, William groaned. He buried his face in the crook of the blond's neck and began snapping his hips, the force of his thrusts driving Ron up and down the tiles.

"Ahn!-Will!" moaned Ron, his cries mounting in volume as the man continued his thrusts.

Shivers ran down William's spine as he listened to his lover's moans and cries of pleasure bounce off the shower walls. He picked up speed, driving harder inside the blond.

Spears wrapped his hand around Ronald's stiffened sex, gripping it tightly as he stroked it in time with his quick and forceful movements.

"Oh gods, William! I'm g-gonna," Knox cried out, arching his torso against Will's chest, the aching bliss of his climax spreading throughout his body as his pent of pleasure spilled forth, coating his husband's hand.

Feeling the spasmodic pulsations of Ronald's climax clenching around his shaft, William slammed into his body one last time before groaning into his neck, his own orgasm striking him as he spilled inside the younger Shinigami. Panting, Will lifted his head and pressed a soft kiss against the blond's lips.

Ron dropped his head onto William's shoulder, pillowing his cheek. "Talk about a wake up call," he laughed.

"It was quite enjoyable," agreed the brunet, kissing the boy again. Sighing, he eased himself out of Ron and gently set him back onto the shower floor. He ran his hand through the blond and black hair. "Shall we take a proper shower?"

* * *

Inside the lift, Ronald stared into the mirror, double checking the garment he was using to coverup his outfit before he had to face his coworkers. In a hurry to figure out how to survive the working hours with the least amount of painful blows to his dignity, Knox chose William's longest black coat hanging in their closet to "accessorize" his ensemble. It was a reach, but perhaps it would be his saving grace for the day. He looked himself up and down, again. The blond inwardly groaned and rubbed the back of his neck when he noticed that his ankles were still showing—there was nothing he could do about it, now. He felt like an idiot, but he had made his bed and if he knew what was good for him, he'd lie in it willingly. The lift came to a stop when it reached the desired floor and its doors slid open with a ding. With reluctance, the younger reaper grudgingly exited the elevator, dragging his white oxford clad feet as he walked down the hall toward William's office.

Heaving a sigh of relief at remaining mostly unseen by his fellow reapers, Ron turned the corner and strolled into his older half's office, only to collide into the back of whomever was standing in the room. He looked up and let out a silent whimper–it was Grelle.

The woman turned around and smiled widely. "There's my sexy junior!" she squealed, pulling the younger reaper into a tight hug and lifting him to his tip-toes, oscillating him from side to side.

"Hey, Grelle-senpai," muttered Ron into her crimson hair, feeling a bit nervous. As his mentor continued to smother him, he reached behind her shoulder and moved the hair obscuring his vision, as well as the few strands in his mouth, to the side. Behind Grelle, he could see Spears peering at him with a questioning look—which was most likely aimed at why the boy was wearing his winter coat.

Grelle put the Shinigami down and took a step back, placing her hands on Ronald's shoulders. She quickly took in his appearance and opened her mouth to comment on how handsome he looked, but it quickly snapped shut when she processed what the boy was actually wearing. Sutcliff's lips set in a straight, firm line and she glared down at her so-called best friend. "What are you wearing, Ronnie?" she asked, her voice unusually calm.

The redhead's tone sent shivers down Knox's spine and he nearly trembled with fear as his face drained of color. "Uh…well, 'cos I was kinda cold," excused Ron lamely, praying his lie would save his life.

"It's spring, darling. How on earth could you be cold?" she reasoned, running her hands along his shoulders, smoothing out the coat's material. Grelle curled her fingers around the garment's lapel.

"I just woke up with a chill, is all," he responded, rubbing the back of his neck. He gulped a little as a sinister smile spread along his mentor's face, revealing her sharp teeth.

Grelle let go of the coat and took a step back, putting her hands on her hips. "Take it off," she ordered, glaring daggers at the boy. When the poor sap made no motion to move, she pounced on him and pulled the coat off of him, not giving a damn if he kicked or screamed in protest. A bet was a bet and she would collect her reward.

The blond Shinigami practically twirled as Grelle snatched the coat off of his form, stumbling on his feet while he was spun around. Plagued with a small bout of dizziness, Ron cautiously straightened up and his face blazed a painful shade of scarlet.

William was in the process of taking a sip of his cooling coffee when the coat fell to the floor; he choked and nearly spit out the liquid. He coughed away the remaining coffee and swallowed thickly. He looked his husband up and down, his eyes ogling his appearance. Ronald was dressed in a kimono that was short in length—so short, in fact, the hems of his boxers were easily seen. The silky fabric was a deep seductive shade of red, beautifully patterned with white cranes and pale pink cherry blossom flowers.

"Ronald, what in the h-heavens?" he stuttered, waving his hand in an all encompassing gesture. Leering at the blond, Will couldn't help but admit that his spouse looked handsome and the colors complimented him quite nicely. Suddenly, a faint blush dusted his cheeks, knowing that he was staring at his spouse in a most inappropriate way. He cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses, forcing certain imagery and desires from the forefront of his mind.

"Doesn't he look gorgeous, Willy!" beamed Grelle. She approached Knox and ran her fingers through his hair, struggling to tame his wild curl.

Directly outside the office, a group of reapers strolled by and upon seeing the youngest member of dispatch, threw catcalls and whistles in his direction. "Looking good, blondie!" complimented one man, shouting the words at an unnecessary volume. Ronald turned around and flipped him the bird.

"Don't ya fuckers have work to do?" he shot back, his cheeks darkening. The group laughed as they walked away.

"As it so happens, the garment does violate the dress code, Miss Sutcliff," Spears interjected, figuring he should provide his young lover with assistance. "It would hinder his performance on the field. Therefore, it would interfere with soul collections." He pushed up his glasses before leaning forward, placing his clasped hands on his desk. "I'll not hesitate to bestow upon him additional overtime if he's unable to finish his assignments," the brunet added apathetically, reminding both employees that he was not one to forsake in his duties as a supervisor—no matter the party involved.

"Yeah!" agreed the blond, nodding profusely. "'Cos you're th' reason why I'm so good, right? Plus, it could get ruined."

"If that were the case, Ronnie dear, you should be able to work in anything," Grelle countered, slightly rolling her eyes behind her red-framed glasses. "But you're right," she sighed, "it could get ruined."

Knox flashed a bright, triumphant smile, thankful for the small miracle; the grin vanished when the woman held up a finger and returned the smirk that told him "not so fast, young man."

"To make up for lost time, you'll have to wear it when you're not on assignment…for a week!" she announced.

"Oh, c'mon, Grelle-senpai!" the boy whined, closing his eyes and slumping his shoulders. He dropped his head back and bounce, kicking the toe of his white dress shoe along the carpet in a display of childish defeat.

Grelle shifted her weight to one foot, jutting her hip out and crossing her arms. "Get over it, darling."

"Fine," huffed Ron. "But I need to change. I have a reap in about an hour." His mentor walked up to him and ran her hand through his hair once more. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on each cheek.

"Well, my darlings, I must be off!" she chirped. The red reaper turned around and blew a kiss at William, whom promptly scowled in response to the inappropriate gesture. With a wave, she left the office in a flourish, throwing her hair over her shoulder as she sauntered down the hall.

Knox sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he watched the flamboyant woman leave. He shrugged and went up to Spears' desk. He leaned against it, curling his fingers around its edge. "My reap's a small gang war, so I'm gonna ask Eric if he'd like to help," he stated.

Now that his companion was mere inches away from him, William was able to get a closer look at the garment the boy was wearing. Before he realized what he was doing, he slid a hand along the young man's exposed thigh. Ron lifted an eyebrow and gazed at Will with sparkling eyes, a crooked smile donning his face. The brunet quickly removed his hand and blushed. "Pardon me," he breathed, feeling slightly perverse for doing such a thing in public. _Lusty fool_ , he chided himself.

It was tempting, but Ronald decided not to tease—there would be plenty of time to do that later. "Ya wanna get lunch when I get back? I should be done by then."

"Yes," nodded William, "that sounds like a fine idea."

Ronald leaned down, silently asking for a kiss. Will glanced at his office door, making sure no lingering bodies were passing by. Satisfied with the amount of privacy provided offered, he met his companion's lips in a chaste kiss. "Do not do anything reckless," he muttered against the blond's lips.

"Nah, I'll be careful," Ron promised. He kissed William again and stood up to walk out the door. Before he could fully turn around, however, he received a firm slap to his bottom. He jumped in surprise and looked over his shoulder; Spears had resumed filling out the paperwork on his desk, an innocent expression on his face. Ron strolled toward the door, chuckling as he exited the office.

* * *

"How's Alan-senpai doing?" asked Ronald, leaning on the handle of his death scythe.

Eric shifted his weight to one foot and put his saw against his shoulder, placing one hand on his hip. "Well, he finally told me wha' he's been doin' wi' Othello," Eric replied, running his free hand through his hair. "He said tha' they've been doin' some injections tha' seem tae be helpin' at the moment. The Thorns look like they're healin' over or slowin' down."

"That's good though, right?"

"Aye, it is. I jus' wish he woulda told me sooner, yeh know?" Slingby kicked his foot against the flat surface of the roof they were standing on. "He said he didn' want tae be a burden tae me or if somethin' goes wrong an' I'll be left sufferin'. Such a stubborn thing," he sighed. "At least we finally talked."

"Will he be going home?"

A bright smile spread along the older reaper's face. "Yep. He came home last night."

Ron returned the man's smile and held his hand up. "I'm happy for you guys," he said, slapping his friend's hand in a high-five.

"Oh…I forgot tae ask ye, did ye lose a bet tae Grelle?"

The boy's cheeks flushed a cherry red. "Yeah. Please remind me to never do it again."

"I always tell ye!" reminded Slingby, playfully punching the blond in the shoulder. "I didn' know yer legs were tha' nice," he teased.

"Oh shut up. You're just as bad as Grelle-senpai," grumbled Knox. "Always torturing me."

Eric held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, yer the one gettin' yerself in tae trouble. Not my fault yer an easy target. Do ye remember the bet about havin' tae wear only women's underwear tae work one day?"

"Ugh. How could I forget?" huffed Ron, rolling his eyes. He sighed and rested his cheek on the back of his hand. "It was fucking winter time. Do ya know what it was like being basically naked an entire day with only underwear to keep me warm? 'Cos I sure as hell do."

"Everyone was stuffin' pound notes in tae the panties when ye walked by. I'm surprised the secretaries didn' die seein' ye like tha'."

"I did get plenty of numbers that day. Will was totally pissed off," laughed Ron. "At least we had plenty of drinking money."

Down on the grassy courtyard surrounded by building, multiple gangs ran into the clearing, colliding with one another in a massive fight. The two reapers listened to the shouts and screams of pain and death echoing in the enclosed spaced as the humans drew knives and pistols. Before they knew it, the last man had fallen. With a sigh, Ronald stood up and approached the edge of the roof.

"We better get going," he stated and jumped down to the ground, landing soundlessly on the grass. He was quickly followed by Eric.

Each Shinigami went their separate ways, collecting the souls of nearly all who had died. Those who lived had run away before the police could arrive.

"Well, that sucked," remarked Ronald, once they finished collecting about ten souls. He walked toward Eric, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Mhmm," the older blond hummed in agreement. As approached the younger reaper, he stopped, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked in the direction of the movement, and saw a bright light in a dead-end alley. "Ronnie," he called over his shoulder, "is there ano'er death listed in the book?"

Confused, Ron quickly opened his Death Book and shut it, seeing no new names listed in the area at this time. "No.."

Eric approached the alley and stopped in his tracks, his mouth agape. "Oi! C'mere!" he yelled, waving his hand at the other man.

Jogging, Ron caught up to Eric and stood next to him. "Uh…what the hell?" he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

On the ground laid a little girl with long blond hair, deceased; her records slowly reeling. The two blonds looked at each other, both confused and concerned.

"Are ye sure there aren't any more?" asked Eric.

"Yes, Eric. I checked," responded Ron.

"Alrigh'. I'll collect and ye watch my back?" Receiving a nod in agreement, Eric cautiously walked up to the child and began an attempt to collect her soul and cinematic records. He grunted as he tried to pull the reels into his scythe, but they wouldn't budge. The older Shinigami ceased trying to collect the reels and instead, moved onto her soul. Nothing.

"Ronnie...I think her soul's been collected?" Eric looked over at the boy, a questioning look on his face. "But her records are still here. I keep tryin' to collect 'em, but it's like they won' let go."

Before he could comment further, a loud noise echoed at the far end of the alley, sounds of bottles smashing and wooden crates falling onto the cobblestone. Shrill screeches and growls floated toward the two men.

"Wha' the—"

"Eric look out!" shouted Ron. He ran over to the other man and pushed him out of the way; both rolled along the ground, crashing into stray boxes. They quickly regained their composure and jumped to their feet.

Standing before them was a demon (most likely looking to consume souls of the recently departed), akin to a giant lizard with long black claws and scales that glinted red against its green body. It paced furiously back and forth, its movements rapid and jerky. The creature opened its mouth, revealing sharp teeth with foam dripping down them as it hissed and growled. Without another sound, it charged at the two reapers.

Eric ran to one side, jumping on wooden boxes to move higher until he reached the roof. Lifting his scythe, he dropped down and landed a blow against the creature's back, slicing away at its scales. With a hiss and a shriek, the demon slammed Slingby across his stomach with his tail, sending him flying to the other end of the alley. He crashed into the trash, bits of glass and splintered wood lodging into his skin.

Ron launched himself in to the air and ran along side the wall, his feet stomping against the brick. He held the lawnmower up as he approached the demon and, feet away, he pushed himself from the wall and twisted mid-air as the scythe slammed into the demon's head. He watched it fling across the alley and collide with the bricks that cracked and crumbled against the force, falling on to the creature in heavy chunks.

The older reaper took the opportunity to run toward the demon, prepared to execute it, but suddenly, it emerged from the debris and launched itself at Ronald, snatching him by the neck. It hit the wall and skittered to the roof, dangling the blond over the edge. Knox's scythe landed on the ground with a crash, settling next to Eric whom quickly grabbed it. He made a move to go after them, but stopped. The demon began to growl as if it were laughing, or perhaps taunting Eric while it swung Ronald from side to side.

"Leave, Eric!" Ron shouted through the demon's grip around his neck. It tightened its hold around his throat, cutting off his air supply. He pawed desperately at its fingers, kicking his legs in the air. His heart pounded in his chest.

"Go!" he began, but was caught off when the lizard demon yanked him against its torso, knocking the air out of his body. It pushed him away, leaving him to flail over the edge.

The demon screeched at the top of its lungs, the high-pitch sound of nails scraping along a chalkboard pierced his eardrums; he felt the warm trickle of blood leaking from his ringing ears. The lenses of his glasses cracked and splintered, the sharp shards falling from the rims.

As the demon shrieked, it lengthened a claw on one hand and stabbed Ronald in the back, piercing through his left lung. Using the other, it sliced open the blond reaper's throat and raked its claws over his right shoulder and down his back, the torn flesh collecting on the tips of its claws. Knox opened up his mouth to scream, but his cries of agony were muffled as he gurgled on the blood spilling from the wound on his throat.

"Ron!" yelled Eric, watching the spectacle from below, frantically searching for a way to get his partner. Before he could come up for a solution, he watched as the demon dropped him with a final screech.

Acting quickly, Eric sped toward the spot where Ron was doomed to hit and opened a portal. He managed to snatch the blond by the wrist before he hit the ground, the sound of the joint snapping as he whipped him through it.

Ronald landed on a street in Shinigami London, his body bloody, bruised, and broken. He heard screams and shouts calling for help before he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Parasitic headcannon [Javanne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Javanne/pseuds/Javanne)


	4. Chapter 4

William readjusted his glasses, returning them to their proper place on the bridge of his nose. He clasped his hands together and placed them on his desk. He peered at the two young ladies standing before him, his yellow-green eyes icy behind his black-rimmed spectacles; his expression stoic and unreadable.  
  
The Shinigami were rooted to the spot on the other side of their superior's desk, practically cowering in his presence. Both were frantic—one woman's bottom lip trembled and the other was on the verge of tears.  
  
"S-sir, w-we..." clumsily stammered the one whose name was Janelle.  
  
"Silence," commanded William, his voice firm and his tone relating to each that he would not be argued with, nor would he accept any excuses.  
  
Janelle swiftly snapped her mouth shut, her lip trembling with renewed energy. She reached up into her long hair and began nervously twisting it with her hands.  
  
The supervisor watched as she continued to fidget; Janelle winced when she twisted her long, brunet on magenta hair too tightly. Will inwardly rolled his eyes. Undoubtedly the dye job was most likely in imitation of Ronald's natural hair style. They had been married for decades, yet somehow the boy still continued to accumulate a massive fan base. The elder reaper found it quite annoying.  
  
"Do you understand the seriousness—"  
  
"Yes!" the one called Jessica interrupted, her voice shrill as she nodded her head; the force at which she did so caused her glasses to bounce on her nose.  
  
William's head whipped in her direction. "Do not interrupt me while I'm speaking," he snapped.  
  
Both women flushed with equal parts embarrassment and sheer terror. Well, mostly out of terror. The tears that threatened to run down Jessica's face appeared and she wiped at her eyes. Supervisor Spears was going to murder them, she was sure. Would he give them time to say goodbye to their friends, or does he plan to reap them on the spot?  
  
"I do understand that you came into contact with a demon on your assignment. I can also understand the emotions one would experience when they are faced with a demon they have neither fought nor seen before." Spears pushed up his glasses again, and the frigidity behind his glare solidified. "What I do not understand is how the creature got its hands on one of your scythes and nearly got away with it. Are you aware of the consequences if a demon so happens to procure a reaper's death scythe?"  
  
At that moment, Grelle had been sauntering down the hall toward her office, but stopped when she heard the icy, stern words of William T. Spears. She quietly approached his office and peeked around the door. The redhead smirked as she watched the two poor souls nearly shaking in their boots as they were scolded. Sutcliff had to place a hand over her mouth to prevent the laughter that threatened to spill from her lips.  
  
"It could kill reapers," answered Janelle.  
  
"Yes. It could and most definitely would kill a Shinigami when given the chance. Do not doubt the hatred that lies between a demon and a reaper. It's a relief that you managed to retrieve the weapon and return to headquarters alive and relatively unscathed. We're short staffed as it is."  
  
The supervisor opened a drawer, pulling out three forms; two of which he slid across his desk. Jessica shoved Janelle forward, practically feeding her to the alpha wolf. With a trembling hand, she took the papers from the stoic reaper's desk and quickly stepped back.  
  
"Return to your cubicles and complete these required forms explaining your actions," he ordered. "Once you submit them, leave the building. Both of you are suspended for two months without pay. During that time, you will partake in remedial classes for field training as well as every class which focuses on demons. You are too far along in your careers to be making such childish mistakes." Spears picked up his pen and began filling out the incident report, silently telling the female reapers they were dismissed.  
  
The two young women feverishly nodded their heads and exited their senior's office, sniffling and holding back tears as they passed by a grinning Grelle, whom was wiggling her fingers at their retreating forms.  
  
"That was so cold of you, Willy," remarked Grelle as she walked into his office with a flourish. She approached the chair in front of his desk and sat down, crossing her long legs once she settled on the black, sleek leather material.  
  
"Their actions were irresponsible and inexcusable, regardless of my understanding of the circumstances," declared the brunet.  
  
"Oh, darling. After all these years, I thought Ronnie would've loosened you up a bit," stated Grelle, throwing her hair over one shoulder.  
  
"Rules are rules, Miss Sutcliff. If one cannot abide by them, they'll suffer the consequences," countered Will.  
  
He let out a soft sigh, reverting his attention to the form before him. Suddenly, a memory resurfaced in his mind. The brunet reaper put down the pen and looked across the desk at the woman, staring at her intently.  
  
"Open your mouth," he demanded. As soon as the words left his lips, they snapped shut. A red hue blossomed on his face once he realized the mistake that Sutcliff would undoubtedly take advantage of. He pushed up his spectacles in an effort to hide the color burning his skin.  
  
Lifting an eyebrow, a fox-like grin slowly spread across Grelle's cheeks. She uncrossed her legs and stood up, placing her hands on the desk as she leaned forward. "I'll open anything for you, darling. You only need to ask~” she teased, throwing him a sultry wink.  
  
William blinked and exhaled a huff of air through his nose, trying to regain his composure. A few heartbeats later, he found himself stable enough to continue. "I want to see your teeth."  
  
Grelle opened her mouth and put her sharp, pearly-whites on wide display, erotically running her tongue along their pointy ends.  
  
"You are aware that you're violating the dress code, correct?" inquired Spears.  
  
"Oh, Willy. You know I can always hide them," pointed out Grelle, waving his words away.  
  
"I'd advise you do as such when the Higher Ups are in our presence."  
  
The telephone on his desk began to ring, its shrill sound grating on his nerves. With a sigh, Spears picked up the receiver. "This is William T. Spears speaking," he announced.  
  
Sutcliff returned to her seat and watched her superior speak to whoever was on the other end of the line, her brows furrowing as the color drained from the man's face. "Willy, what's—"  
  
"—I'll arrive shortly," said William curtly, hanging up the phone. Standing up, he stepped around his desk and hastily walked out of his office.  
  
Behind him trailed Grelle, her heels frantically clicking on the floor as they walked down the hallway. "What happened, Willy?"  
  
Instead of taking the elevator, William walked past the sliding doors and opened the door to the emergency stairs; he took the steps two at a time. "Ronald was attacked during his reap," he informed the redhead, his words echoing inside the stairway.  
  
Once they made it to the first floor, Will pushed open the heavy metal door and exited the building, stepping into the bright sunlight. He hurried across the street to the infirmary. The brunet walked through the double sliding doors and approached the first nurse he saw, gently grabbing her arm to gain her attention.  
  
"Excuse me, Nurse..." He glimpsed down at her name tag, squinting his eyes to see the letters. "...York, I'm looking for Mr. Ronald Knox. I received a telephone call notifying me that he was brought here in critical condition," he relayed calmly.  William pushed up his glasses with a barely noticeable shaky hand, swallowing the worry and panic lodged in his throat.  
  
The hospital employee walked toward a nurses' station, beckoning the two Dispatch Shinigami to follow closely behind. When she reached the area, she leaned over the desk and grabbed a large binder containing patient information. Nurse York opened it and flipped over the pages, searching for that specific patient.  
  
"Supervisor Spears," she said without looking up, her eyes quickly scanning the paper. "He's currently in surgery and under the care of Dr. Berger and the assisting surgeon, Dr. Bradshaw.”  
  
The woman faced the brunet. "If you follow me to the waiting room, I can see if the doctor or a fellow member of the medical team will speak with you." Accepting the slight nod provided by Spears, Nurse York led them down a bright, white hallway, passing numerous doors until she led them into a small room with cream colored walls. "Someone will be in as soon as they're available," said the nurse before exiting the room.  
  
Exhaling a pent-up breath, Will walked to a chair and sat down on the plush, multicolored cushions. Grelle sat in the chair next to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. For once, he didn't flinch away from her touch.  
  
Approximately fifteen minutes later, a woman wearing a navy surgical cap and scrubs beneath a long, white lab coat walked into the waiting room and approached the two reapers. She took the free seat on the other side of William, whom turned to face her.  
  
"Good evening, Dr. Bradshaw," greeted William politely, his monotone voice conveying nothing but professionalism. His hands were clasped together in his lap; he yearned to twist them in his anxiety. Beneath his immaculately pressed, black suit, a stream of nervous perspiration cascaded down his back.  
  
Behind the supervisor, Grelle crossed her legs and bobbed her foot in worriment. She tucked her long crimson hair behind her ear, then removed it, repeating the action in a nervous-tick manner. Her yellow-green eyes bore into the doctor's soul, waiting for the woman to say something. Time seemed to slow down in her anticipation, and she silently wondered if she would have to strangle information out of the surgeon's throat. Sutcliff put her leg down and lifted from the chair a few inches, prepared to do just that when Dr. Bradshaw finally decided to open her mouth.  
  
“We discovered Mr. Knox sustained a considerable amount of injuries when he was brought in. Considering the extent of the trauma, it's safe to assume he was attacked by a demon,” informed the assistant surgeon.  
  
“Is that all you're going to share with us?” Grelle snapped, her eyes narrowing at the strawberry-blonde. “Do you care to share specific details, or are you going to continue being useless?”  
  
William glared icily at the redhead over his shoulder. "Calm yourself, Sutcliff," he warned. The stubborn woman obeyed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs. Sighing, Spears returned his attention to the surgeon. "I apologize on the behalf of my associate," he said, pushing up his glasses.  
  
“No worries," assured Bradshaw, shifting in her seat. She took a deep breath and exhaled it before speaking. "He was impaled by what seems to have been a claw, which resulted in a punctured lung and broken ribs. His throat, as well as his shoulder and back, were sliced open as well. The skin surrounding the wounds is blackened. Whatever sort of demon attacked him, injected him with poison. We're cutting away the infected flesh. This also means his puncture wounds contain the poison, too. It'll take a while for us to clear away the poisoned tissue."  
  
She paused to allow the two Shinigami to ask questions if they were so inclined. Receiving neither a question nor a remark, Dr. Bradshaw continued.  
  
"His eardrums were punctured and vocal cords slashed. When he wakes up, he won't be able to hear or speak; he'll regain those abilities as he heals. As for his glasses...they were sent to Father Anderson. Do you have any questions Supervisor Spears?"  
  
At a loss for words, Will simply shook his head.  
  
"I must be getting back, then. When he's out of surgery, someone will take you to his assigned room where you can wait for him there," replied the doctor, flashing a small smile before getting up and leaving.  
  
"He'll be alright, sweetie," Grelle reassured him, gently rubbing his tense shoulder in soothing circles.  
  
Once again, William said nothing, too lost in his own thoughts to form words. Thus, he sat there in a quiet daze, staring blankly at the open door with tired eyes; his demeanor hardened and indecipherable.  
  
"Slingby," he muttered after a few minutes of silence, "accompanied Ronald on his assignment. I must..." The supervisor began to stand up, but was abruptly pushed back into the chair. He looked up to find Grelle standing over him.  
  
"Sit," ordered Grelle. The redhead placed a hand on William's cheek, then ran her thumb gently along his pale skin. "Let me call Eric. You stay here and wait for Ronnie." She put her hand down and turned away, walking toward the entryway. Before she left the waiting room, she looked over her shoulder, "I'll be right outside if you need me, darling."

* * *

With a final scrawl of his signature, Alan put down his ink pen and exhaled a sigh of relief. After a long afternoon of being glued to his desk, he had finally finished his paperwork—which meant no overtime for the exhausted reaper. He picked up the neatly stacked pile of papers and slid them into the expandable, clear, plastic file folder; he closed the container and secured it with the elastic band that wrapped around it. Suddenly, his mobile began to ring—the noise of it vibrating against the hard wooden desk nearly sent Humphries into an early death. Clearing his throat, he answered the mobile on the fourth ring.  
  
"Hello, this is Agent Humphries speaking," he politely greeted whoever was on the other end.  
  
"Hi, Alan. It's Grelle," replied the crimson reaper, her voice strained. She paced back and forth in the infirmary's hallway.  
  
Humphries tucked the phone in between his shoulder and ear to hold in it place while he opened his desk drawer and put the file folder inside of it. "Is something the matter?"  
  
"Have you seen Eric?" Grelle stopped pacing and looked inside the waiting room window—William remained in his chair, rooted to the spot.  
  
"I haven't since this morning. Is something wrong?" asked Alan. His eyebrows furrowed with concern.  
  
"Willy and I are in the waiting room at the hospital," began Grelle, ambling yet again. "Ronnie was attacked on his last reap. Eric was with him."  
  
"What!" exclaimed the smaller reaper. He quickly stood up, banging his knee on the underside of the desk. Holding back a pained groan, Alan limped toward his office door. "Is Ronnie okay? Where's Eric?"  
  
"Ronnie's in surgery right now. I'm sorry, darling, but I have no clue as to where Eric could be. I tried to contact him, but he didn't answer his mobile."  
  
"Thank you, Grelle. I'll see if I can find him," Alan stated before he snapped his phone shut, impolitely ending the call. He'll apologize later.  
  
Moments later, the frantic reaper skidded to a halt when he entered the Scotsman's office. Upon seeing his husband sitting in his chair—bruised, bloody, and wounded—he let out a gasp.  
  
"Eric!" called Al, scurrying over to the blond Shinigami. His yellow-green eyes roved over Slingby, his jaw dropping as he took in the injuries peeking through his spouse’s tattered clothing. For a brief moment, he stared at a particularly nasty cut on Eric's forehead, which was caked with blood and matted hair. Blood oozed from the cut and slid down his face, pooling near a black eye.  
  
"I'm alrigh', Al," coughed Eric. He shifted in his seat, letting out a loud groan as pulses of pain shot up his injured side.  
  
"No, you're not!" countered Humphries. He reached into his blazer's pocket and pulled out a blue handkerchief. As he approached the taller reaper, he licked part of the handkerchief and pressed it against the wound in an effort to clean it. Eric let out a hiss at the added pressure.  
  
"I jus’ need tae get cleaned up and I'll be ready tae go," insisted Slingby.  
  
"We're going to the infirmary," the small brunet sternly declared.  
  
"I'm fine. Stop yer worryin'."  
  
"Get up," Al commanded, nearly stomping his foot.  
  
"No I hate—"  
  
"If you do not get up, Eric Slingby, I will carry you myself!" threatened Alan, yelling at the top of his lungs. He pointed a finger at the taller reaper, his face turning red due to the combination of frustration and worry over his stubborn husband.  
  
The smaller reaper's shouting inside the Scotsman's office drew in an audience, earning alarmed glances from their fellow coworkers. Some whispered to one another, curious as to what caused the quiet Alan Humphries to verbally express such anger.  
  
Shivers ran down Eric's spine and he visibly flinched, shrinking back into his chair as he was continually scolded by his usually well-reserved, calm spouse. When he felt he was mere seconds away from a smart slap to the face, he held up his hands. "I'll go!" he surrendered.  
  
"Not like you have a choice in the matter," muttered Humphries. He approached the blond and gingerly took his uninjured arm, pulling him up from the chair. Eric let out a low groan as he was pulled to his feet. Clutching his side, Eric took a hesitant step toward the door.  
  
Both men slowly made their way to the lifts and across the street to the infirmary. Once inside, they were swiftly led to an area where Eric could be treated for his wounds.  
  
"Have ye seen Ronnie?" asked Eric as he sat down on the hospital bed. He let out a painful hiss when the cuts on his legs brushed against the stiff, white bed linens.  
  
The brunet retrieved the metal visitors' chair, dragging it along the white tile toward Eric before sitting on its plush cushions. He settled back in the uncomfortable seat.  
  
"No. When I talked to Grelle, she said he was in surgery," answered Alan.  
  
"It's my fault," admitted the Scotsman, his shoulders slumping. He took in a deep breath and ran his hand along his face, knocking his glasses onto his lap.  
  
Alan rose from the chair and walked over to Eric. He picked up his spouse's glasses and carefully slid them back on. "What happened?" he asked, gently brushing the hair from the taller reaper's forehead.  
  
With a sigh, Eric recounted the day's earlier events. As he spoke, he watched Alan's expressions change from worried to alarm, and the various emotions in between.  
  
"I didn' do anythin' tae help—I jus' stood there like a fool," he concluded. "I need tae apologize."  
  
"We'll do that after you're taken care of," promised Alan. He placed a hand on the blond's cheek.  
  
Any further conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. The couple turned their attention to the doctor entering the room.  
  
"Good evening, gentlemen," greeted a tall man with short platinum-blond hair. He held out his hand for Alan to shake. "I'm Dr. Brady."  
  
"I'm Alan Humphries," replied the smaller reaper as he shook the other's hand. "This is my husband, Eric Slingby," he added, gesturing his free hand in the blond's direction. Eric nodded his head in greeting.  
  
Parting ways, Dr. Brady diverted his focus to the injured reaper. He quickly assessed the Scotsman's physical state. "We'll get ya cleaned cleaned up, throw in stitches and something to ease the pain," he stated. The man walked over to a cabinet filled with medical supplies and opened it, pulling out the necessary items to treat the patient.  
  
"Do I really need stitches?" questioned Eric, his eyes glued to the individual packets of needles and syringes.  
  
The physician glanced over his shoulder at Slingby. "If you're a good patient, I'll give you a lollipop," encouraged Brady.  
  
Eric scowled and glared at the floor, a childish pout on his face. "I hate needles," he grumbled beneath his breath.  
  
"Oh, stop being such a big baby!" snapped Alan, slapping Eric's arm.

* * *

Hours after the sun had set, Ronald was wheeled into a recovery room where William awaited him. He stood over his lover's unconscious form, stoically taking in his appearance—the tubes, bandages, his ghostly pallor—as he listened to the doctor speak. The supervisor frequently nodded in acknowledgment of the other's words, but he barely heard a thing. After what seemed like years of idle chit chat and unregistered information, the doctor finally bade William ‘goodnight’ and closed the door behind him.  
  
William pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. Letting out a huff of air, the elder reaper placed one hand on Knox's forehead and brushed back the blond fringe covering his eyes. With the other, he took the young man's hand in his own and gently squeezed it.  
  
"You mustn't clock out on me, Ronald Knox," he muttered as he continued to run gloved fingers through his hair. "Who would I be without you?"  
  
With that said, the brunet settled his head next to Ronald's shoulder. Spears took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it through slightly parted lips. As he laid there listening to the machines beep, he found the sounds to be oddly soothing and before he knew it, he drifted off into a light slumber.  
  
It felt like mere seconds since he closed his eyes before they snapped open at the sound of the machines frantically beeping. He quickly stood up, knocking the chair beneath him onto the laminate floor.  
  
Ronald had woken up and began pulling on the tube in his nose, letting out soft sounds of distress as he clawed at the bandages around his throat. Will reached across his husband's body and repeatedly pushed on the button signaling for assistance. He placed both hands on top of the young man's own, gently prying them away from his neck.  
  
Spears put his palms on either side of Knox's head and carefully turned it to face him; he stared into wide, frightened eyes. "Calm down, Ronald," he urged through a strained voice as he ran a thumb across the blond's lips and cheekbone. "Calm down, I'm here." However, his words did little to ease his distressed companion. If anything, it only increased the boy's panic. "Ronald..." he began, but stopped. _That's right—he can't hear you._ The terrible reminder sent his anxiety into overdrive.  
  
Furiously wondering where in the heavens the on-call nurse was located, William let out a silent curse. He hit the button again, nearly breaking it in half. The brunet watched tears pool in the corners of Ron's eyes; they slid down his cheeks each time he blinked.  
  
In spite of being unsure as to what he should do—other than abuse the call button—he refused to leave his husband's side. He ran a hand along the boy's cheek, aiming to comfort him with the gesture. "It's me, Ronald," Will slowly mouthed, vainly hoping that, despite his missing glasses, Ron would be able to understand what he was trying to say. He received a terrified blurt of noise as a response.  
  
Officially desperate, William leaned down and pressed his lips against Ronald's. The young man sucked in a harsh intake of breath and exhaled it through his nose, his eyes closing. The monitor's alarms slowed down and returned to a steady rhythm; he had fallen asleep. William removed his lips from Knox's and pressed them against each eyelid, kissing the tears away.  
  
As soon as his lover calmed down, a nurse finally appeared. Spears straightened up and peered at her as she approached Ron's side, his piercing eyes throwing sharp blades in her direction. Normally, William thought name-calling was a childish action, but all he could think at the moment was: _that bitch!_  
  
Despite his crass thoughts, Will was thankful for one thing, though: his years of well-practiced self-restraint prevented him from being an overly violent man. Or else he would've snatched the idiotic hospital employee up by her horrific pink hair and given her a piece of his mind for dallying while his husband was in need. And if she were lucky, she wouldn't lose a chunk of hair during the fierce tongue lashing.  
  
Even so, he briefly wondered what her cinematic records would present to their receiving audience if one so happened to reveal them. Incompetency? The irrelevancy of her meaningless existence, perhaps? Are there any justifications as to why she should be reaped? A part of him itched to find out. One frame wouldn't hurt, would it?  
  
"I'm sorry, Supervisor Spears," apologized—in Will's opinion—the irresponsible and utterly useless Nurse Aiden. Standing by the bed, she took the stethoscope around her neck and put the plugs in her ears, huffing a warm puff of air against the metal diaphragm before placing it on Ronald's chest.  
  
"Mr. Knox woke up for a brief moment," informed Will, his voice eerily calm in spite of his inner fury. "He attempted to remove the nasal tube and rip open the bandages around his throat."  
  
Nurse Aiden hummed at William's words while she listened to the young man's heart and lungs. Once she was finished with that part of the check-up, she hooked the stethoscope around the back of her neck. Then, she proceeded to check the monitors as well as his pain medications.  
  
"He seems to be alright, now," she declared.  
  
William glowered behind his casual expression and mentally channeled his husband's words: _no shit!_ He wholeheartedly planned on filing a well-deserved complaint against this senseless woman as well as requesting a new health care official to assist Ronald while he remained in the infirmary.  
  
"His bandages are loose, so I'll change those," the young pink-haired nurse stated. She busied about as she procured the necessary items needed to change and clean the boy's bandages from a nearby cupboard. Aiden put the supplies on a tray on a little mobile table and pulled it along as she returned to her spot by the bed.  
  
"Mr. Knox has visitors waiting outside. Would it be alright for them to come in?" inquired Nurse Aiden, putting on latex gloves.  
  
"What in the heavens are they doing here in the middle of the night?" William pondered aloud. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I shall tell them to return in the morning."  
  
"Morning?" asked Aiden, lifting her eyebrows as she removed the bandages around the blond reaper's neck. "Sir, it's 8:00 AM."  
  
Spears looked over his shoulder and saw sunlight filtering in through the window; its luminescent rays casted a bright yellow-orange hue against the white floor tiles, highlighting the dust that hung in the room. He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out his beautifully crafted silver pocket watch, its long chain brushing against his hand as he clicked it open to double check the hour—eight o'clock.  
  
Staring at timepiece’s face, the Supervisor then realized that he had failed to report in for his duties at 6:00 AM, nor did he give notice of his absence. He had been so consumed by his emotional exhaustion, he hadn't thought to set an alarm. He sighed. There was nothing he could do about it now. Pocketing his watch, Will gazed at the pink-haired nurse. To his surprise, she was already finished with her task.  
  
"Yes. I suppose that'll be alright," he agreed, pushing up his glasses.  
  
"I'll send them in," Nurse Aiden replied, taking off the white latex gloves. She picked up the used medical supplies and took them to the appropriate disposal bin to toss them away. With a small wave, she bid William ‘goodbye.’  
  
The Supervisor reached for the chair and was about to sit down when Grelle flew into the room at such velocity, William was surprised any loose object in the room hadn't gone flying about. Following closely behind Sutcliff were Alan and Eric.  
  
"Ronnie!" Grelle quietly gasped, her hand on her chest. The redhead slowly walked up to the injured reaper, the sound of her heels clicking on the floor mixing with the beeping of the monitor. She placed a warm hand on his cheek and rubbed her thumb along the soft skin.  
  
"Miss Sutcliff, please be—" his request was abruptly cut short due to the look the crimson reaper bestowed upon him. He nodded his head and pushed up his spectacles. Spears watched as Grelle fussed and cooed over her dearest friend, pulling up the paper-thin, blue hospital blanket up to his chest and tucking it securely around him; Ronald let out a few soft whimpers as she did so. To William’s immense relief, she did practice caution and stayed clear of the tubes and bandages.  
  
"Will he be alright, Sir?" asked Alan. He felt the material of his clothing shift against his back. He looked up to find Eric staring at Knox with an expression of guilt written on his face.  
  
"Given time, yes," answered William, casting a glance at his spouse.  
  
"Boss...I need tae talk tae ye about somethin' tha' happened while we were on assignment," Eric said.  
  
"The demon," surmised Will.  
  
"Well yes, but no," replied Eric, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it's no' the best time, but I don' think it can wait ano'er day."  
  
Spears looked over at Eric, his brow furrowing when he heard the Scotsman's unusually serious tone. He took a step toward the door, beckoning Slingby to follow him. Once they were outside the room, he turned to face him.  
  
Standing next to the bed, Alan looked past Grelle and watched the two men converse. William nodded occasionally as the blond spoke, whereas Eric fidgeted and frowned as he recounted the events leading up to Ronald arriving in Shinigami London. Once it appeared the conversation was over, Alan looked away.  
  
Following behind Eric, William strolled into the room and addressed the agents surrounding the bed. "It seems I must seek an audience with the Higher Ups," he announced. He turned to Alan. "Mr. Humphries, may I ask that you return to Headquarters and keep things in order until I return?"  
  
"Yes, sir," nodded Alan.  
  
"Miss Sutcliff?" asked William, already dreading his request. The redhead glanced up at him expectantly. "I also have a favor to ask of you," he admitted.  
  
"What is it, Willy?"  
  
Reaching into his trouser's pocket, William pulled out his key and handed it to Grelle. "I would appreciate it if you were to go to my apartment and retrieve Ronald's training glasses. They're in box on the shelf in our bedroom closet. Please do be gentle with its other contents as well."  
  
Will had stumbled upon said box one evening while he was dusting the top shelves in their closet. When his arm brushed against it, the container fell to the floor and opened; a multitude of orange origami birds scattered onto the floor—the very ones he often folded for Ronald. He remembered picking them up, one by one, and peeking under each wing in search of the little messages he would write for his lover to discover. A particular origami bird—a rainbow lorikeet—was much larger than the rest. The brunet flushed as he remembered the look on the blond's face when he found the message, then screamed “yes” before tackling him to the ground. He could still sense the butterflies that fluttered in his stomach as he impatiently waited for Ronald to read the question.  
  
"I'll go fetch those right now. I won’t break anything, darling,” promised Grelle, her lips twitching at the coloring dusting her superior’s cheeks. Contrary to the man’s knowledge, she knew exactly what was in the box, seeing as Ronald told her every detail down to the last crease of paper.  
  
"I'll stay wi' Ron and wait till ye get back," offered Eric, walking over to the empty seat by the bed.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Slingby. If Ronald does happen to wake in my absence, please call me immediately.”

* * *

The Supervisor anxiously ambled back and forth down a long hallway on the uppermost level of Dispatch Headquarters. He stared at the floor as he paced, his mind overfilled with thoughts and questions. William was in the process of heading toward the door when it opened; he looked up to find a young man with long orange hair beckoning him forward.  
  
"They're ready to see you, Supervisor Spears," said the young man. He stepped out of the board room and held the door open for William.  
  
The brunet reaper straightened his tie as he approached the employee. "Thank you," he muttered, giving the boy a polite nod as he entered the room. The young man let the door freely shut; it banged against the frame before closing with a loud click. If the redhead had been invited to the meeting, William would've assigned him overtime for such a rude action.  
  
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," greeted William, bowing at the three Higher Ups seated at the far end of the room. He made his way to an unoccupied, black leather chair and pulled it from beneath the table, its wheels creaking unforgivably along the gray carpet.  
  
Once settled, Will quickly glanced around the place he reluctantly frequented, whether it be for a routine meeting or an appeal on behalf of one of his employees--which mostly involved the troublesome Grelle Sutcliff, if he were to name a few. He had hoped he wouldn't be surrounded by the three teal colored walls with a long window spanned across the fourth any time soon.  
  
"What is it you wished to discuss, Supervisor Spears?" asked the salt and peppered hair man, Jonathan Wick, who was seated at the head of the table. He impolitely sniffed behind his large, square spectacles, undoubtedly attempting to hide his profusely running nose. William nearly grimaced as he watched a large drop of mucous trickle down the side of his superior's mouth.  
  
"First, I would like to thank you for agreeing to this meeting on such short notice," began William, nodding his head again. He took a moment to make eye contact with each Elder, staring intently in order to convey the seriousness of the topic. "I believe I shall get straight to the point. I was approached by a Dispatch Agent who confided in me the details of a particular reap involving a female child. The employee stated that the child was not listed in their Death Book—"  
  
"—We are aware as to what you are referring to Supervisor," interjected the second Elder, Michael Sheppard. The blond reached forward for the blue and white ceramic tea pot and carefully poured the warm liquid into its matching cup. He added two sugar cubes and a dash of milk before stirring it. "And it seems the problem has arrived in London."  
  
Stunned, William blinked. "I apologized, but I'm not sure I understand—"  
  
"—These mysterious instances began in Germany," interrupted Roy Eckles—which was quickly getting on William's last nerve—before taking a sip of his tea.  
  
"Yet you did not share this bit of information with Dispatch?" accused William.  
  
"To put it simply, Supervisor Spears, it wasn't our problem until now," countered Wick, his tone nonchalant.  
  
In spite of the stressful hours he endured prior to this meeting, William was able to maintain what little of his wits that remained. Or else his jaw would've fallen onto the table with a clatter. Beneath the table, his knuckles cracked.  
  
"The German Branch did notify us about these occurrences, but they didn't offer many specifics past the victims' records and souls," continued Wick. "Therefore, I suggest you begin an investigation before it gets out of hand in London. We are a much more capable force than Germany. I believe the task will be completed under your guidance."  
  
"The two reapers who were assigned to the case were, if my memory serves me correctly, Sascha and Ludger. It would be wise to contact them for more information," suggested Michael.  
  
Deciding that he should promptly leave the boardroom lest he accidentally scythe these men, William stood up and bowed. "Thank you, gentlemen. I shall begin an investigation promptly," he vowed, bowing again before turning toward the door and exiting the room. It took every ounce of restraint to prevent himself from slamming it shut; it may have cracked in half under the pressure of frustration.  
  
William hurried down the hall toward the lifts. Standing outside the elevators, he repeatedly pushed the 'down' button as he willed the doors to open. As he waited, his blood began to boil. The board knew, yet kept him in the dark rather than giving him notice to watch out for the situation.  
  
The lift doors slid open with a ding and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the floor he desired. Will reached into his inner pocket and dialed Alan's office telephone. The smaller reaper answered it on the second ring.  
  
"Mr. Humphries, I would like you to draft a memo which is to be delivered to every Dispatch agent on hand. I would also like you to arrange accommodations for two guests from a fellow branch." The lift slowed down to a stop and the door opened. "It appears that Agents Sascha and Ludger will be visiting London, yet again.”


End file.
